


The Missing Hours

by Sparcina



Series: Iron Webs to Covet [3]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Broken Bones, Cute, Drama, Drunk Sex, Epic cluelessness, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Jealous Tony, Kissing, M/M, Morning After, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Panic, Peter Is Clueless, Peter Needs a Hug, Possessive Stephen Strange, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pregnancy Kink, Protectiveness, Rimming, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy Tony Stark, Sweet Tony Stark, Temporary Amnesia, Tony is 48, Tony is Clueless, caring Tony, friendly spiders, peter is 16, pregnant!Peter, sugar daddy tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Peter wakes up after Tony Stark’s welcoming party severely ill and confused. Soft smiles, warm eyes and caresses are all he can remember from the night prior. The problem, he soon discovers, is that he’s not merely hangover: his current state is infinitely more frightening... and the most precious gift life has to offer.In which Peter is pregnant but doesn't know how it happened or who the father is, Friday knows everything but merely watches the drama unfolds, Tony is lavishing Peter with attention but could do so much more, and Strange is the meddlesome friend who really wants to know what Peter is hiding from them all (and incidentally makes Tonyveryjealous).Translation into Spanish:Las Horas Faltantesby amdc1597.





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Las Horas Faltantes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177473) by [amdc1597](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amdc1597/pseuds/amdc1597)



> My heartfelt hanks to my friend and co-artist AL (we sometimes draw Frostiron together) for helping me out with this plot bunny. You rock, AL. I would also like to thank amdc1597 for the Spanish translation of this story.
> 
> Also, this fandom really needed a pregnant!Peter story. Especially a secretly pregnant Peter. Oh, is that angst?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up to a little surprise from last night's party.

Peter didn’t remember much, but his body remembered all right.

“May?” His voice came out as a pitiful croak. Squeezing his eyes shut against the danger of a spinning room, he rolled onto his back, trying not to upset his stomach further.

Two seconds later, he was spilling his guts on the floor, chest heaving frantically as his hazed mind tried to process what was happening, and why. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so sick. It was definitively before he’d gotten bit by that spider.

“Damn.” He wiped his mouth clean with the back of a trembling hand. It felt cold against his face, most likely because he was burning up with a fever. He knew he should get up and take care of the unwelcome decoration on his floor, but his body jerked in protest, so he curled up on his side instead and waited for the nausea to pass. And to say he’d planned on a lazy morning sleeping off the terrific party Mr. Stark had thrown to welcome him to the team… There would be no sleeping in for him today. Not with his back and legs aching, and those impressive bruises on his arms and neck (was that a  _lovebite?_ ), and most importantly, the distinct sensation that his body was shifting in sizes every few seconds. He felt as if his skin was trying to melt back behind his muscles, and his bones were in the process of turning into jelly.

Plus, he had school. He could call in sick (which he was), but he had a kickass immune system. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand. This was no big deal, he tried to reassure himself. The nausea would go away. Those awful sensations would fade. They had to.

God, what had he  _drunk_ to black out like that, and how much? He remembered bits and pieces, like Dr. Banner directing him to the non alcoholic section of the bar (which hadn’t worked out so well apparently), and Barton’s jokes and taunts. He remembered the secret smile on Widow's face as he’d taken a shot of  _something_ later in the evening, and a hand on his shoulder (Banner’s, perhaps?) as the room dissolved into a surreal painting.

He also remembered Mr. Stark. Of course he remembered him. After years of fantasizing about the man, first as a scientist, and later as a wet-dream he wouldn’t mind doing a few things with (and being done a few other things by), Peter was at last working with him. For him. Whatever. He now met with the man on a regular basis, and he liked to think they were friends.

With a strange sense of leaving his own body (his skin was still trying to go into places it had no right to be), he palmed his cock through his briefs and swore at how sensitive he was from that simple a touch. His hole, too, felt well used. Peter shivered for at least twenty reasons as a warm, heady laugh filled his mind. For a fleeting instant, he could swear that a thick cock was still sheathed in his ass, and that a voice praised him, telling him what a _good boy_ he was, but the rest of the words eluded him, and too soon the memory was over, and refused to play back no matter how hard he tried to remember.

Another question to add to the list of problematic mysteries: who had he let fuck him last night? Even at the young age of sixteen, Peter had fooled around a little, and if he hadn’t gone through every base with a guy, he still knew how to finger himself open and put on a condom.

Apparently, last night was when he'd officially lost his virginity. Peter cursed against the back of one hand, even more nauseous than before. He would be damned if he couldn’t remember his first time, but hell, the only thing which had deigned stick to his memory was the heat of a rough, thorough love-making. It wasn’t rape, of that he was sure. He couldn’t say how, but he knew. Too bad there was no face to go with the bruises coloring his skin, and no name to go with a thank-you text.

There was a knock to the door.

“Peter?” May sounded worried. “Are you ok?”

She must be concerned that he’d turned into a party animal last night and was now suffering the after effects of 'experimentation'. Peter cleared his throat, and barely swallowed down the bile surging up his throat.

“I’m all right,” he croaked. “'ust need sleep.”

He had exactly one hour left before he needed to leave for school. 

*

Ned and Michelle were waiting for him at his locker. Well, Ned was waiting, arms crossed as he scanned the hall; Michelle was reading something on her cellphone on the floor close by, seemingly unaware of the chaos of students running and shouting at each other in the vicinity. Peter rubbed at his temples, trying to convince himself that, no, his hangover wasn’t bad enough for him to stay home, and knowing it wasn’t the main reason by far that he’d decided to go to school. After all, he never expected to wake up after his first night of penetrative sex without the vivid memory of it. At least, the unexpected strong symptoms of his hangover had receded some.

“So, how was the party last night?” Ned asked as soon as he spotted him.

Peter slung his backpack to the floor and went for the most practical answer that would get his friend off his back. He loved Ned, but he still felt like rolling up into a ball and sleeping for at least a week.

“Amazing.”

"Are you hangover?” His friend clapped his hands with a delighted grin, making Peter wince. “Hey, Michelle, our Peter has finally got a taste of sin!”

You have no idea, Peter thought darkly as Michelle replied: “He’s not my Peter, Ned. Stop interrupting my reading. Hi, Peter, you look like hell.”

It was so like her to just jump from one subject to the next that a wave of relief immediately surged through him. This, here, was normal.

His memories would come back eventually.

The sick feeling in his gut would disappear.

He might even stop fantasizing about Mr. Stark, but that was not likely. The man might be his mentor, and their relationship based on friendship only, but Peter was only human, with eyes to see. And he saw what they could be together.

He sighed.

“Come on, Ned. What have we got in first period?”

“French.”

Peter was so happy it wasn’t gym class he  didn’t even complain when the teacher dropped a test on his desk. He would go through this day. He would.

*

“You’ve reached Dr. Strange. Don’t bother leaving a message.”

Peter leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath. His stomach was trying to crawl back into his throat, even if there wasn't anything left in it to justify the dizziness. He must have drunk at least half of the alcohol at the party to feel that bad, but an overdose would have made him pass out, not given him a strange fever accompanied by the weirder sensation of a second heart beating in his head. He’d tried to get rid of the fever by taking a very cold bath, complete with ice cubes, as soon as he was back from school, but as soon as he’d stepped out the strange heat had returned with a vengeance. Sweat rolled down his brow as he fumbled with his phone, hanging up and punching the number labeled ‘Emergency’ for the fourth time in a row.

It went straight to voicemail. Again.

“You’ve reached Dr. Strange. Don’t bother leaving a...”

“Fuck.” Peter let his phone drop to the floor. His knees felt week, as if he’d run for hours on end, and he felt thirsty and nauseous and god, every limb in his body ached. He collapsed on the floor and picked up his phone, clutching it to his chest. He could always try to call Bruce. If it got any worse, he would. For now, though, he would wait and see. He had no intention of thanking Mr. Stark for his kindness (the man was busy as hell and still have found the time to throw him a party he’d attended himself) by making him worry about his guest of honor’s  _hangover_.

Except that it wasn’t just a hangover, now, was it? Peter whimpered pitifully. He didn’t consider himself weak, but he wished he could roll into a ball and black out again. Time always fixed everything. It had helped with Uncle Ben, and it would help (eventually) with his crush. There was no reason it couldn’t fix his current predicament as well.

He stared at his phone. So, no Bruce yet. The man was competent, and a good listener, but Peter knew that news of his situation would travel up the Avengers’ grapevine straight to Mr. Stark.  _Tony_.

His left leg spasmed. He would be all right. He would be fine. He would not call Dr. Strange a fifth time, because while the man wasn’t a close friend of Mr. Stark (Peter didn’t know if they even considered themselves friends), the sorcerer would not hesitate to call the man if he decided Peter impinged on his time alone. Strange was that kind of asshole. Too bad he was his best shot at figuring out what was wrong with him…

His phone chimed with a text. Peter almost dropped it in relief.

_It’d better be important, Parker. – SS._

Peter took his time typing his reply. It was either that, or sending an unintelligible message.

_I need your help. I think I’m seriously sick. – Peter_

_I’m not a doctor. – SS._

Peter sighed in frustration.

 _I know,_ Master  _Strange. I will owe you one. – Peter_

The reply came in five minute later. One word, but it was almost worth the wait.

_Hurry._

“I’ll do my best,” Peter growled to himself.

Dr. Strange’s temporary residence in New York was a fifteen minute dance over the roofs.

In his current state, it took almost an hour of public transportation. By the time the taxi pulled in the driveway to the two-story house, Peter felt so close to pass out he took a moment to simply sit on the asphalt and breathe. He would get help. He would be fine.

He didn’t have any problem ‘owing Strange one’. He’d already served as a guinea pig for the sorcerer, and didn’t mind the strange experimentations. Mr. Stark had argued that Peter shouldn’t be so helpful, lest Strange actually damage him, but Peter knew Dr. Strange considered him too interesting to be clumsy in the way he handled him. Knowing that Mr. Stark worried a little felt nice, though.

The door opened on its own as Peter reached it. Familiar with the house, Peter gripped the handrail and slowly the stairs. He found Strange standing in front of his desk in a dark room that looked more like a cavern, lips moving silently as he read from an book so hold it was a wonder the pages still held together. Peter used to find the presence of locks and chains around the man's books slightly disturbing, but right now even the naked evil twin of Dr. Strange dancing over a pentagram on fire would not have held his attention for long.

His knees wobbled as he let go of the handrail. Sweat trickled down his brow. His lungs couldn't seem to hold on air long enough for his brain to work, but somehow, his mouth still accomplished its purpose.

“I need your h-help.”

The man didn’t move. Peter knew he’d been heard, and also that Strange wouldn’t offer an immediate reply, as he was reluctant to abandon any experiment or study he'd started prior to an interruption. He was very much like Tony Stark in that respect.

No, not thinking about that now. Or should he, to distract himself from the searing pain?

A commanding voice jerked him from the nightmare that was living. “What happened?”

Peter tried to look up as Dr. Strange left his desk, but his neck ached too much. The man's cape might or might have not waved at him in greeting; an impatient hand put it back in place with a flourish. “Parker, you with me?”

He hadn’t even noticed he was slowly falling. Strange caught his elbow.

“Wow, you look like hell, kid.”

“Not a hangover,” Peter mumbled. “Even if…”

“This is definitively not a hangover,” Strange snapped back in reply, dragging him to the cluster of machines covering the entirety of one wall. Screen and strings, even organic-looking devices, coexisted in an attempt to bridge the chasm between science and magic. There were a lot of locks as well, and twice as many keys. “What happened to you, Parker?”

“Not… sure.”

Strange pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit down. “Before you collapse,” he explained, not unkindly, when Peter hesitated. “It will be better for me to examine you anyway.”

Peter cleared his throat. “I thought you weren’t that kind of doctor anymore.”

“Well, neither is Mr. Banner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the experience, or the skills, to help someone in need. Now be quiet and let me do my job.”

The man moved about the room too fast for Peter to see. He sensed hands on him, and then a light was shoved in his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks as pain reached a new level.

“High fever,” he heard. The hand on his brow was so, so cold. “But it doesn’t make any sense. What if...”

A computer screen next to them showed a series of lines and numbers Peter was too ill to try and decipher. Dr. Strange cursed as he fumbled into a nearby cabinet. Peter's chin dipped a little.

“Here." Electrodes were placed close to his neck; one was even shoved down his shirt, over his fast-beating heart. “Don't take them out. Stay there," Strange instructed. "I will be back in a second.”

Two minutes later, the computer let a tone indicating success. Dr. Strange had yet to return, so Peter scrambled to his feet... fell, swore, and pushed himself on the chair to get back to his feet. Dark spots flashed in his vision as tremors coursed through his body. He tasted blood in his mouth, mixed with bile. He could barely stand, but he had to see, had to know... One step at a time, he dragged his feverish body to the screen.

No.

_No._

It took him a long time to make sense of the information, and even more time to believe it might be real. He managed to type in a command to crash the system and collapse back into his chair before Strange stormed back into the room.

“Sorry it took so long, but I had to check some… What the hell?”

“I think the system… crash... ed...

“Parker, stay with me!”

His last thought before he passed out was that the universe must be very cruel indeed, because on top of not remembering his one time lover, he was pregnant with his child.


	2. Nothing Can Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's always been good at keeping secrets, but there's a problem with this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that 'I didn't have time' sounds a bit lame, but I really didn't. I've just finished writing my thirteenth novel (or is it the fourteenth?) this week, and I have four different multi-chaptered fics to update.  
> *Yawns* Hope you like it!

Pregnant.

_Pregnant._

P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T.

Peter had never been so grateful for Dr. Strange’s casual dismissal of other human beings. As soon as he came back to himself, he claimed a migraine, and when that failed to grant him a quick exit, he spun some story about a girl and _feelings_ , effectively encouraging Strange to teleport him back, discreetly and promptly, to his apartment.

“Get some sleep while I get someone to fix that crash.”

Peter knew that one day the not-quite-animosity between Mr. Stark and Dr. Strange would come in handy. He may be good with computers, and a decent hacker, but he stood no chance if Strange decided to call on the head of SI… which he wouldn’t do, because of his ginormous pride.

Peter tried to entertain himself with the memory of his last patrol with Iron Man, which had involved thugs wrapped up in spider webs and a lot of gymnastics, but his body, and what it held, kept distracting him, and not in the good way. He rolled into a ball, feeling like death warmed over, wishing for time to start flowing in the other direction, when rage hit him without warming. Angry tears streamed down his face as the memory broke into a thousand questions pertaining to another night.

Peter muffled whatever pitiful sounds escaping his lips with a trembling fist. He shook and panted and sweated, all the while wondering what he'd ever done wrong in his life to deserve this.

He was _so_ angry at it. The creature. The thing. The fetus. The... baby. The tiny bundle of life that had taken root in his belly, proving science wrong on so many accounts. If  _he_ was pregnant, a boy who'd developed superpowers after being bitten by a spider, shouldn't Captain America be able to? Or the Hulk? Why him? Why this? He was too young to even consider having kids. He might like them, might enjoy protecting them, so they could continue playing in a park and smiling at their mothers, but to have one of his own, so soon?

He rolled on his back, trying to relax, but the fever and the nausea insisted on teaming up against him. With a weak snarl, he reached for the half-empty bear bottle on the bedside table. He would have dropped it if not for his reflexes. Did it matter if he got wasted? Surely he could drink until he forgot his own name at least once in his life? He didn't even remember the man with whom he'd spent the night at the party, the man who’d told him what a _good boy_ he was. The ache between his legs spoke of pleasure, and  _god_ , how could he forget getting that bitter-sweet deal? Peter Parker was not in the habit of getting drunk, but alone in his small bedroom, he thought about exceptions. About a small reward for all he had one for himself and others. He might have gone as far as take the first swig...

... but then he spat the foul liquid on the floor, appalled at his behavior. He was _pregnant_.  _He_ was pregnant. No matter how much he hated the fact, no matter how much he wished to get rid of a life that should never have existed, he couldn't harm it. He could never harm an innocent; that was a lesson he’d learned from his uncle, back when he’d been naïve enough to believe the person he would fall in love with would have no choice but to love him back.

When May was finally asleep (he’d feigned to sleep when she’d checked up on him), he tiptoed, obeyed the weird impulse to down the bottle of milk, and then emptied two glasses of water for good measure. He exited the apartment through the bathroom's window and only managed not to break his neck because of his abilities.

With every gush of fresh wind, he expected his precarious balance to break, and his shivery frame to collapse on concrete. The drugstore was not far off, but walking could easily become a new Olympic discipline as far as he was concerned. By the time he pushed the door open, he was positive he was going to throw up again. At least the green complexion he spotted in a mirror was balanced with the redness of fever.

The clerk at the counter, a tall emo barely older than himself, eyed him suspiciously.

"Are you going to be sick? You don't look so good, pal."

Peter tried to keep his breaths slow and steady. Breathe in. Breathe out. He'd done harder things before.

Right.

"Pregnancy test," he chocked out, hands knuckle-white on the counter.

The guy became much more sympathetic afterwards. Of course, he didn't know that  _Peter_ was the one needing the test, or else he might have been a tad more judgmental.

Peter left the drugstore and entered a random restaurant. The chatter was loud, the smells too strong, and wrong; he hurried to the bathroom, locked himself in the only unoccupied stall and dropped down his pants, staring at the package as if it was going to rip his face off, eat it, digest it and spit it back out on the piss-stained floor.

It took him seconds to empty his full bladder. The test only needed a couple minutes to show the result, but Peter sat down on the toilet and ignored his fate hanging at his fingertips for a good half an hour. When someone pounded on the stall, he pretended not to notice.

Of course, there were two lines.

*

For a whole week afterward, he bought a pregnancy test. Every single day, he went to the drugstore (always a different one), requested a pregnancy test and peed on the damn thing in the relative privacy of a stall in a public bathroom (never the same either). It was all in vain: no matter long he stared at the not glowing stick of destiny, no matter how much he squinted, it always showed the same result: two pink lines.

Pregnant. Peter Park, sixteen years old,  _male_ , was pregnant.

Eventually, he ran out of tears.

*

He was sick all the time. He could tell no one, not even Michelle and Ned, not even May, and especially not the Avengers. Had he been a girl, maybe... Shame and anger warred inside him at every new dawn that saw him bent over a bucket, throwing up and shivering. The first two days, he'd used the toilet, but Aunt May asked too many questions, and even though she couldn't begin to guess at the truth, even though nobody could possibly suspect the change in his body, he couldn't risk it.

Once that first week drew to an end, Peter stopped pretending he was fine and pulled his head out of the sand.

He was Spider-Man. Even learning of his own pregnancy couldn't keep him off the field for long. He craved the action. Yearned for the privilege to defend and protect. Furthermore, he missed Mr. Stark and the other Avengers. Mostly Mr. Stark, but he couldn't really well tell him that, not seriously anyway; he’d been told too many times that he wore his heart on his sleeve.

He announced to Michelle, Ned and May that he was a bit down because of an unrequited crush. Considering that none of them knew that he’d been suffering from an actual unrequited crush for months, no embarrassing questions were asked. His aunt gave him breathing space, and organized movie nights with popcorn. Michelle and Ned tried to distract him, each in their own special way. At school and at home, he could wince and curse in relative peace. Throwing up was still complicated to explain, but he came up with various excuses, including food poisoning and the flu.

Next he dealt with Dr. Strange.

"What do you mean, you can't come tomorrow? The system is back online, even if your results are irremediably lost."

Thanks every deity in existence for that, Peter thought. In the background, he heard Strange moving around, probably working on one of those awfully complex spells he'd told Peter about with fancy words. There was the thud of a book being set down on a table. Peter did his best to focus on that. To ignore the aroma of fish coming from the kitchen. Fish. He used to like fish... in another lifetime, perhaps. Tonight one tiny molecule of it, even with the fan working at full speed to repel it, had already sent him running to the bathroom twice, and threatened to have him dry heave in one minute top.

"Parker?" Strange barked.

Peter almost fell from the bed. He'd just found the perfect lying down position, and was entertaining the ridiculous notion that last week had been a nightmare. Even the physical memory of what ought to have been a very enthusiastic fuck, the first worth mentioning in his sixteen years of life. What good did it do for the body to retain, but not the mind?

Besides, he felt like he'd cheated on Mr. Stark, and how could he cry again? He tied to muffle his sobs, but it was too late.

"Are you  _crying_?"

Strange's voice was not exactly concerned; more like curious, as in I-would-like-very-much-to-run-more-tests-on-you curious. Peter sniffed, rubbing one cheek into his pillow.

"Of course not." His voice gained more assurance with each word forced out. "I just have a lot of exams coming up, and a full plate with Avengers duty."

"I see."

Actually, it was a good thing Strange could not see, Peter thought. Or maybe he did, being a mage? Peter quieted the oncoming panic attack by telling himself that if Strange knew about his pregnancy, he would have teleported into his room a long time ago.  

"Take care of yourself, Parker."

Strange hung up without waiting for an answer. For the rest of the night, Peter stared at the ceiling, applying stars on the peeling white paint, and wondering about Mr. Stark's whereabouts. It hurt to think about the man, and his growing crush, but at least it distracted him from the physical pain of pregnancy.

*

"Good evening, Peter."

"Hey, Friday.”

He stumbled over his own feet on the doorstep. The AI’s voice held an inquisitive note when she spoke next. "Are you feeling well, Peter?"

Could you lie to an AI? Peter felt bad even as he spoke out loud the rehearsed lie. “Yes. Just tired.”

"I'm pleased you had fun at your party."

Peter froze. Considered throwing a fit, and decided against it. Low profile, Peter, he told himself. You can do this. "I... did." And then it struck him; wouldn’t Friday know about everything that had taken place that night? If somebody knew about his mysterious lover, it would be her. And once he knew about the lover, he would know about the other (he gulped) father.

Except that Friday couldn’t know about his pregnancy, because the news would be passed along to Mr. Stark, and Peter didn’t need his crush to know that he could get knocked up, much less by some stranger whose face he couldn’t even remember.

Damn it.

“Friday…” He trailed off, waiting for the door to click shut behind him. “Did something, uh, unusual took place that night?”

The AI didn’t hesitate. “Nothing that I would deem such, Peter. But perhaps if you formulated your question in such a way that-”

Peter licked his lips. “Did I… I don’t know… have-” Sex? No, he couldn’t finish that thought, because once again, Mr. Stark could access this conversation.

He was well and truly fucked as far as recovering his memories went.

“Peter?”

“I’m running late for the meeting,” was his only reply. “But thanks anyway!” he added with overdone cheerfulness.

He made his way to the elevator, before remembering that it might be a better idea to take the stairs. Apparently, fish wasn't the only thing that didn't agree with his queasy stomach these days. God, how did women do? He'd always considered pregnant women strong for giving birth ( _don't think about that, don't think about that, DON'T THINK ABOUT THAT)_ , but now his respect extended to their everyday life. How could someone go through a full semester, or in some cases nine months of pure biological torture? He'd never been fat to start with, and now that he had trouble to keep down anything beside very specific fruits and yogurt, he was losing weight at an alarming pace. There would come a time when 'heartbreak' and 'flu' would sound like the excuses they were, and…

"Hey, Parker!"

Peter almost jumped out of his skin at the sensation of a rough hand patting him on the shoulder. His lovesick and masochistic self spent half a second hoping it was Mr. Stark welcoming him back after a sick leave, but the voice didn't match all of his treasured memories, and neither did the appellation.

After all, Mr. Stark called him  _kid_. Peter hated it as much as he loved it.

"Clint!"

The archer, who had just come back from another mission, if the heavy bags under his eyes and the manila folder under his arm were any indication, stopped jogging towards the living room of the common floor. "Everything all right, Parker? Don't tell me you're still hangover from your wonderful party?"

Peter gulped. If Strange had swallowed the lie easily enough, many of the Avengers would not be so gullible; they'd known him longer, and they cared in a way Peter suspected Strange was not able to. Of course, he couldn't tell Mr. Stark anything, not even the stupid half-lie he'd come up with. Strange would not pass the word of his sickness around in the grapevine, because he was too busy being amazing and was immune to the temptation of gossip. Widow was too damn perceptive, Banner was _somewhere_ on vacations ... which left Barton, who was, Peter hoped, at least a little gullible.

"I'm... well.” Peter cleared his throat, genuinely nervous. “I don't want to bother you with... it's kind of stupid... and complicated..."

"Oh." Barton turned to where Widow was beckoning at him from her self-appointed sofa, from which even Mr. Stark never tried to dislodge her. He made a complicated gesture at her intention before turning back to Peter with a knowing grin. "The meeting's about to start, but I'm sure I can spare a couple minutes, if you want to talk." He sobered in a blink. "Unless you want me to get Stark? After all, he's your mentor, and you guys get along like a house on fire, so..."

Peter's heart almost stopped beating. He forced himself to keep up the act. "No, it's ok. It's really nothing." He tried to make his face show it, and hoped it worked. "'m just... there was this gu- girl..." The following sigh wasn't fake at all. "I guess I didn't expect the rejection."

" _Oh._ " Barton said again, eyes widening. He patted Peter's shoulder, out of sympathy this time. "That's never easy for sure. I could tell the others you don't feel way, if you'd like?" A wink. "It could be just between us. If you don’t mind a piece of advice- hey, the man we were all not waiting for!”

“I’m glad you could make it, kid.” Mr. Stark exclaimed with his usual energy, breezing past him.

Under any other circumstances (i.e.: had he not been pregnant and going crazy because of it), he would have smiled, a little sadly perhaps, as a tanned, calloused hand ran through his hair. The affection in the man’s voice was clear, and Peter was grateful for any demonstration he could get.

Under the actual circumstances, he jumped out of the man’s way, almost elbowing Barton in the process. He didn’t yell, but it was a close call; he’s so nervous all the time now, and every inch of his body still protested the whole standing up, getting busy part of the day. He saw Mr. Stark’s eyes widen, and alarm darkening Barton’s face. The conversations in the living room stopped.

“Kid?” Mr. Stark lowered his sunglasses, puzzlement written all over his handsome face. “Are you ok?”

“S-sure.” With horror, he realized that he’d reflexively put a protective hand on his belly. Stupid, he thought. The thing was not a month old. Someone could probably beat the crap out of him that it would still be fine, thanks to his enhanced metabolism. Fortunately, his public didn’t seem to notice something was off. Off _er_.

“Kid, are you sure-”

Peter’s stomach lurched. By sheer force of will, he managed a smile.

“I’ll be back in a sec.”

Walking was a torture. As soon as he reached a bathroom, he yanked the door open and rushed to the toilet, emptying his already empty stomach. Fuck, what did that daily nausea had to hit its peak right when the Avengers meeting was starting? He couldn’t afford this.

“Friday,” he whimpered. “Please don’t tell anybody.”

“If your sickness doesn’t threaten your life or the life of others, I will keep it secret,” the AI promised.

Peter heaved a sigh, leaning his brow against the ceramic of the toilet. He was going to stay in that uncomfortable position for thirty more seconds before going to the sink, splashing some cold water on his face, and ordering his reflection to behave.

It'd been exactly nine days since the party, and eight days since he'd learnt of his pregnancy. He had absolutely no idea how he would go through the next week without going mad, and it scared him.

Life, for the first time in sixteen years, terrified him.


	3. All Spiders Need a Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has only begun to accept his pregnancy when he discovers that others around him now about his secret. Others he has not expected, in many shapes and forms.
> 
> And damn, but why can't he remember what happened at the party?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo life is still a thing, and so are all the books I'm writing, the walls I'm climbing, my side-job, etc. I'm seriously amazed I still get to update any of my four fics at all. Happy belated New Year!  
> Oh, and by the way... a special thanks to Thalya and J, who gave me ideas for this chapter.

In a relatively good mood for once, Peter refused to spend any more time thinking about the way Mr. Stark had hovered around him a week ago when he’d attended the Avengers meeting. Mr. Stark had been worried, and so nice to him, texting him short and sweet texts such as _Are you ok?_ and _You sure you can handle this boring meeting_? every time Peter’s façade cracked. Peter had both been grateful and close to tears when Mr. Stark had hugged him at the end of the meeting. 

“Hey, Peter!”

Ned bumped their shoulders together. Peter discovered that his smile was genuine, and immediately hugged Ned within an inch of his life. Wallowing in misery and being angry 24/7 wasn’t his default mode. He’d much rather smile, and picture a parallel universe where he woke up beside Mr. Stark, _Tony_ , every morning. 

“Good to see you in a better mood,” Ned told him a little breathlessly. “If they can’t return your affection, they don’t deserve you.”

Peter didn’t quite wince, but it was a close call. “What about you, Ned? Fancy anyone around here?”

To his surprise, Ned blushed. Peter let out a happy laugh and proceeded to interrogate the hell out of his friend until the first bell rang.

*

For the first half of the school day, Peter acted like a sixteen-year-old who had nothing better to do than listen to their teachers with one ear, and to their friends with the other. During lunch break, he sat with Ned and Michelle outside and ate the sandwich May had prepared for him last night. Not wanting to push his luck, he gave Ned the meat that was threatening to make him nauseous and munched on the lettuce and the bread.

“You’re so weird, Peter.”

He shrugged. It wasn’t like he was going to explain _that_.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Michelle chimed in. She was sitting a little above them on the edge of a large and tall cross-shaped sculpture made of concrete. On his more comfortable wooden bench shadowed by a pine tree, Peter grinned.

“And this, Ned, is the voice of reason.”

He finished his sandwich and even risked an apple while Ned told them about the awful cardio tests the physical education teacher had devised for the class. Peter stared at the blue, cloudless sky, and found himself laughing as Ned parodied their teacher’s harsh tone. Even Michelle, who couldn’t be bothered to appreciate their jokes most of the time, let slip a smile every now and then.

It took Peter a little while to notice all the small spiders that had begun to creep on the bench around him. The bushes at his and Ned’s back were alive with insects and birds, and the bench covered in leaves, ants and discarded snack bits. A spider or two was to be expected; two dozen, not so much, even if they were small and inconspicuously brown.

Tuning out the voice his friend, Peter caught one spider in his palm and gently but firmly put it back in the bushes. The arachnid waved its eight legs in something that almost resembled protestation. Peter blinked twice, but no, the spider was not getting away; instead, it tried to climb back into his hand.

Well, he’d be damned.

Pretending to lie down on the bench, Peter placed the enthusiastic spider farther away, so that it couldn’t possibly come back up. Of course, as soon as that spider had been dealt with, another started to approach him, as if he was some kind of giant, appetizing mosquito. Or the mother of all spiders, at whose feet they gathered to await his orders. Peter stifled a hysteric laugh and looked hard at all those little creatures so similar to him, in a way. Hadn’t his body been designed by chance to bridge an impossible gap between species that had diverged so long ago they had hardly anything in common now?

Propped on one elbow with his neck twisted to the side, still trying to appear nonchalant, Peter made a shoo motion with his hand, surveying the school ground.

There was only Michelle looking at him, with that amused expression she usually saved for Ned.

“I’ve never seen spiders act like that,” she remarked, flipping pages in her drawing book.

Thankfully, Ned had just taken off, ostensibly to get dessert.

“Me neither,” Peter admitted, waving frantically at the small mob of spiders, hoping they would get his pheromones, if not the gesture. The back of his neck prickled, and because things weren’t already embarrassing enough, nausea hit him out of the blue. Thankfully, he had practice dealing with a queasy stomach.

Michelle studied him with even more focus than before. Peter cringed as she leaped from her resting place and sat at his side, eyes darting between the spiders and him.

“Do you absolutely have to look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

Peter stole a glance behind his shoulder and sighed in relief; the spiders had retreated to their lair, wherever that was.

“Like you know something you shouldn’t,” he mumbled.

“And what is it I should know?”

His eyes widened a little. Was she actually psychoanalyzing him? Ever since he’d started throwing up and explained that he was going through a rough patch (the broken heart excuse, which was only half a lie), she seemed intent to ask him the oddest questions at the worst time. He had to hand it to her; she would make a terrific psychologist.

“Nothing. There’s nothing you should know.”

She hummed. “Well, I don’t believe spiders would merely tag along because you’re Spiderman.”

Peter’s jaw dropped open. He _had_ said ‘nothing’, hadn’t he? Damn, Ned was sure taking his sweet time getting those brownies at the cafeteria. “W-What?”

“What I mean to say is,” Michelle went on without commenting his eyes bulging out, “that this spider phenomenon would have started a while ago if your moonshining as Spiderman was the reason for it, which means that something else has happened since then, arachnid-wise.” She finally let go of her drawing book and offered him something that could pass for a friendly smile if he’d been farsighed. “Are you, I don’t know, pregnant or something?”

Peter was still trying to reboot his brain when he caught Ned coming their way. His alarm, and the cause for it, must have shown, because Michelle walked to their friend and told him something that sent him right back into the main school building.

“Peter?” Michelle stood beside him, one hand hovering over his face. “You’re a bit pale.”

Peter stared at the lonely spider, a beautiful orange and black specimen he hadn’t seen before, which was poking his pinkie. He fought the first sob with all his might, but within three seconds he was crying in Michelle’s slightly awkward embrace. Damn, but he hated that side effect of pregnancy.

“Is it because you’re gonna have to make a nest for it?”

“Uh?”

Michelle patted his back and shifted, clearly not knowing what to do with a lap of crying Peter.

“The child. It is because it’s gonna be a half-human, half-spider hybrid and-”

Peter cut her off right there, because hormones or no hormones, shock or no shock, this was _not_ a conversation he was ever going to have. Mainly because that (albeit very remote, not to say inexistent) possibility scared him witless. Some people were afraid of flying; well, he was terrified of giving birth to an hybrid. When he stopped to think about it, he was also pretty scared at the prospect of giving birth, period; he very obviously didn’t have the necessary parts.

“No,” he mumbled. “I’m not afraid of that.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Peter counted down to ten. “Of everything else about this,” he gritted through his teeth, jerking his chin at his belly.

“Oh.” She held him at arm’s length, watching the shift from desperation to anger, right back to helplessness. “It’s a gift, Peter,” she said, almost chidingly. “Don’t you feel privileged?”

“Absolutely not,” Peter snapped.

Not taking offence, she picked up her drawing book and resumed her sketch of that girl on the other side of the basketball field. Peter thought that she looked like Ned, with longer hair and bigger breasts. “Don’t worry, Peter.” Just like that, she had entered her bubble again. “I won’t tell anyone, not even Ned.”

“Especially not Ned.”

He tried to relax, to feel gratitude at the now open possibility to share that burden with someone else, a person his own age who didn’t judge, but the fear and panic sat heavy in his stomach.

“Hey, guys.” Back from his adventure in Sweetland, Ned put a brownie on Peter’s knees. “Those are the best, seriously. Still warm. Just a bite and-”

Scrambling to his feet, Peter promptly returned the brownie to Ned and made a beeline for the bathroom, elbowing a couple of students on the way, to lock himself in a stall. He should be used to kneel at least twice a day by now, but the position ever failed to annoy him; kneeling would be much more enjoyable if he could get his mouth on something, not throw up. Of course, that particular fantasy was a dead end, especially now that he had some stranger’s _baby_ playing around in his body as if it was an amusement park.

At least, he would be able to attend his afternoon classes: possessing abilities and a physical resistance that regular humans could only dream of totally rocked.

Being pregnant because of said abilities, less so.

*

On Thursday evening, Peter found himself in the Avengers headquarters, sipping a glass of water. It was movie night, and Peter had missed enough of those to experience the first tinge of guilt. Mr. Stark’s texts, ranging from ‘ _I’m so sad you’re not here_ ’ to _‘You would have loved this one, there was a dog and plenty of explosions’_ were wreaking havoc with his mind. While Mr. Stark had always been friendly and considerate, he’d never been so… _aware_ of him before.

For a moment yesterday, Peter had panicked, thinking that perhaps Friday had let her master into Peter’s secret. A quick chat with the AI, though, had reassured him. Of course, Friday could lie to him if Mr. Stark asked her to, but that just wasn’t how Mr. Stark acted. If he knew…

As if thoughts of the unrequited love of his life and his pregnancy weren’t enough burdens to shoulder, he still couldn’t remember much of the party night. Heat, pleasure, a warm laugh the likes of which still raised goosebumps all over his body. _Good boy._ Those words, at least, should have offered some insight, but no, Peter was just that unlucky. 'Parent' sounded frightening enough already without the word 'single' added to it.

His cell chimed with an incoming text. Peter laughed quietly when he saw the name flashing on the screen.

_All data on your illness had been lost. I will visit soon. - SS_

“Now who’s bothering with messages?”

_It doesn’t matter, I’m feeling well now. - Peter_

_You can't keep avoiding me forever, Parker. - SS_

Peter was going to give in the childish urge to type ‘of course I can, come get me if you can’, because he was tired of living a triple life, and wanted nothing more than to lash out at somebody who could engage him in a healthy banter, when the elevator doors opened on Barton, Widow… and Mr. Stark.

He pocketed his phone and got to his feet.

“No need to get all official on us, Peter,” Barton drawled. “Do sit down, loyal subject.”

Peter stuck out his tongue while Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, elbowing Barton in his stead. There was more than one reason Peter was in love with the man.

“I’m only getting something to eat, you know. Not everything is about you.”

Mr. Stark gave him an approving wink as Barton turned to Widow for support. Whatever she whispered in his ear, it didn’t stop him from pouting.

“I’m so wounded, Peter. Am I not supposed to be your confidant?”

“I thought _I_ was your confidant?” Mr. Stark protested. “What do you wanna eat, kid?”

Peter glared at Barton, trying to sound casual. “Pasta… with some veggies, I suppose.”

“And that’s what you all should eat instead of that scrap you keep ordering,” Widow commented, perching on Peter’s vacated barstool. “And Clint, stop pestering Peter about his crush, or I’m going to start reminding you of _yours_.”

Peter froze on the spot as three pairs of eyes turned his way. The awful noise his glass of water made shattering on the floor barely registered. He could only hear the blood roaring in his ears. It was ok, he told himself, trying to smile, and failing. As long as they didn’t know _who_ it was, he would be fine, he would be fine, he would be fi-

“Pastas with veggies, got it,” Mr. Stark said with his usual enthusiasm, breaking the silence. “Friday, you heard that?”

“Already on it, Sir.”

Peter sank to the floor to gather the broken pieces of glass, barely paying attention to what he was doing. He was _not_ panicking. He was not-

“Stop, kid.” A warm hand closed on his wrist. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark.”

“Are you annoyed with Clint? I can force him to stay still while you punch him if you’d like. Spilling secrets isn’t very friendly,” he said a little louder, before whispering, “even if I feel a bit put out that you would tell him about whoever’s on your mind, and not me. I thought I was your best friend. Beside Ned and Michelle, I mean.”

Peter bit down his lip. He wanted to tell him. Everything. The need tore at him, like a giant fist crushing his ribs. He couldn’t breathe right, and God, but he _wanted…_

“It’s… I don’t…” Did Mr. Stark really have to keep touching his wrist like that? He snatched his hand back, and immediately regretted it, because Mr. Stark wouldn’t understand the rejection. How could he? Peter was only trying to protect himself, and preserve their friendship. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I am. It just wasn’t… It’s not important.”

“Hey, look at me.”

Peter couldn’t look away, even if the hand on his chin burnt.

“Leave the mess on the floor to my bots, will you? And let’s make two things clear: whatever you want to tell me, _tell me_ , kid. You’re important to me.”

Peter shivered as a calloused thumb brushed his lip. It lasted but a fraction of a second, and Peter was 100% sure it was unconscious, because Mr. Stark was the most tactile person he knew, but his body reacted with a flush that left him uncomfortably aware of the tightness of his pants.

“What’s the s-second thing?”

Mr. Stark helped him to his feet, which might have been necessary considering how bad he was  shaking, and trying to hide it.

“My name’s Tony, not Mr. Stark, kid.”


	4. A Welcome Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Tony spend an evening together in a small bistro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this update, as I will be pretty busy over the next (few) week(s) working on my detective novel that will get published in Spring. Also, fluff ahead! <3

Mr. Stark, _Tony_ , was being unreasonable. 

"You really don't have to do this, Tony."

"And you, kid, really should learn to be grateful."

Peter rolled his eyes as he munched on his steak. It was well cooked, but still tender, and melt in his mouth in a way the meat he bought at the grocery store never did. He let out a groan of appreciation when he got to the best part, only to hide his face behind his glass of water at the realization that the man sitting in front of him was watching him intently. Watching as he flushed the brightest red in the known universe.

He coughed and took a few sips. By the time he wasn’t feeling like everything that went through his mind (and groin) showed on his face, he addressed Mr. St- no, _Tony_ ’s kind yet sharp reply.

"I am grateful, very, very grateful, trust me, but I don't see what I did to deserve all… this.” Smiling shyly, he jerked his chin at the very fine food on the table, and the splendid landscape outside: a tranquil lake and a thick forest bathed in the warm, red light of dusk.

It was Tony’s turn to roll his eyes.

"You're my friend, kid, ok? I like to spend time with my friends, and I feel like I've neglected you since the party." He lifted his wine glass to his lips, and Peter tried not to stare as his Adam’s apple bob up and down his throat. He’d always had a thing for Tony’s throat. It just seemed so… enticing. “To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t remember much of that night,” Tony added sheepishly, cutting his fantasy short. “I meant to pace myself, because I’m not going to give a bad example to- never mind.”

He set his glass down and picked a broccoli by the stem, made a face as his brain registered what exactly he’d just put into his mouth, and let go of it with clear disdain. Peter chuckled.

The bistro belonged to an old friend of Tony, from the time when he’d attended MIT. According to Tony, and the various reviews Peter had spotted upon entering the place, it was usually crowded right until closing time around eleven pm, but the owner owed Tony a favor and had let him have the place all to himself, and Peter, for the evening.

Peter was both grateful and embarrassed by the preferential treatment. He’d dreamt so often of having Mr. Stark ( _Tony_ , his mind supplied in a chiding tone) all for himself. Of course, those fantasies always implied NSFW material, such as straddling Tony’s lap and kissing him for all he was worth, or Tony on his knees with dark, hungry eyes, mouthing at his cock through his pants, and then… Peter shook his head. He should stop torturing himself. Tony was a wonderful friend, to have treated him to such a cozy evening. Peter hadn’t eaten so much _and_ kept it down in ages, and Tony kept making him laugh. He was so kind, so considerate, so…

Loveable.

Peter bit down his lip, averting Tony’s gaze. Their friendship was precious to him; he didn’t want to threaten it. Shouldn’t even think about it.

“To be perfectly honest in turn,” he said slowly, staring at the last piece of his steak, “I must have drunk too much as well, probably of Romanov’s vodka, and…”

Tony cocked his head to the side. “And…?”

“I probably slept it off somewhere.”

“That’s good,” Tony approved with a nod. “I would have been worried of losing track of you if Friday had not told me that you’ve had a wonderful time.”

Peter froze. Fortunately, Tony was busy pushing all the yummy-looking vegetables to the side of his plate, and consequently too busy to notice the effect of his words.

“This is just plain disgusting,” he mumbled, knifing through a roasted pepper as if it’d personally insulted his mother. “Why do people like you, Bruce and Pepper insist I eat this?”

Peter heaved out a sight of relief. Reassured that Tony didn’t know about _his_ whereabouts the night of the party, he found himself reaching for the broccoli so casually dismissed. Feeling daring for all of two seconds, he shoved it into his mouth and mentally squealed in delight at tasting Tony… even if it was only by vegetable proxy.

“I’m glad your aunt didn’t mind you going on a little trip with little ol' me.”

“You’re not old,” Peter replied automatically.

Tony snorted. “I sure look good for forty-eight, but I _am_ getting old. I know it, and my body knows it, even though my mind is as sharp as ever.”

“I don’t think you’re old,” Peter mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Tony asked in a playful tone.

Peter turned crimson for what ought to be the tenth time in the last ten minutes. At least the lights were dim, and Tony’s attention divided between Peter and his hatred for vegetables.

“More wine?” the head waiter asked, a quiet and serious man as large as he was tall.

Tony gave him his glass. Peter shook his head, and the waiter poured more water into his glass. He had to keep hydrated, and if he was being perfectly responsible, he’d better start eating healthier stuff as well. He took all the peppers from Tony’s plate, and a carrot for good measure. He  _was_ responsible of two people's well-being these days.

Tony held his glass in his right hand, his elbow propped on the table, so casual in his elegance that Peter felt a surge of shame, in his threadbare clothes. But Tony didn’t judge, so he tried not to either.

“… about Strange?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Tony smiled.

“What about Strange? I hope he’s not being unduly harsh in his treatment of you. I know you consider your arrangement beneficial for both of you, but I-”

“Tony,” Peter cut in with clear exasperation. “You know he’s interested in my powers, and I am, too. We’re doing science together, that’s all. He’s not coercing me into anything. He's a sorcerer, for crying out loud; he could teach me things about myself I could never hope to learn otherwise.”

“I thought _I_ was your science buddy,” Tony complained.

“You’re my favorite, so stop acting like a kid.”

Tony stuck his tongue out at him. Peter was sure he wasn’t supposed to find that attractive, but he was a little helpless where Tony was concerned. Under the table, he reached for his belly, caressing the very, very discrete bump of a life growing.

They talked of Peter’s work at school, Avengers business and the new cool stuff in the realm of science, as Tony put it. The waiter cleared their table while they were in the middle of a debate on superconductors, and by the time Peter became aware that their desserts had arrived, the ice cream was already melting. Still, he did his best to win the current argument before diving into the paradise of his strawberry ice cream topped with chocolate and caramel. Tony was only having a coffee and staring at his bowl with faked superiority. Peter took an extra big spoonful of ice cream to aggravate him. It was beyond delicious; even the word 'decadent' didn't come close to describe the bliss his taste buds experienced. He grinned at Tony, who returned his toothy smile with ease. Peter was distracted by the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, one of the few discreet pointers that Tony was older, decades older than him. He wished to lean into his mentor's personal space and kiss those lines of time, trace every one of them with the tip of his tongue in a show of worship.

He shook the thought loose before it could evolve into something that would make him feel even more awkward.

"You wanna tell me about you know what?" Tony asked after a few minutes of quiet contemplation.

“What what?”

"I should say 'who',” Tony amended with a pensive look, pulling at his goatee, still smiling, still too beautiful for words. "You know, whoever you've had on your mind up till now? I can tell when you're distracted," he quickly added when Peter frowned and opened his mouth. "It's ok. I know what it is to be so utterly taken by someone the whole world seems to fade in comparison. I don't blame you." He chuckled, but it sounded forced. His smile remained genuine, too. He lifted his napkin to his lips, and Peter couldn't help but think that Tony was hiding something from him.

Not that Peter could hold it against him.

"I need a distraction, actually, I-" He inhaled deeply, focusing on the tiny speck of life within his belly. Soon enough, he would have someone on whom to bestow all the love bubbling in his chest, haunting memories and dreams, fantasies mixed up with reality. The pang of sadness and disappointment he was feeling right now, sitting so close to Tony, but with leagues of obstacles between them, would subside in time.

And, maybe, he would love again. Perhaps he would find the man who'd knocked him up, and then... Peter remembered dark eyes staring at him, drinking him in, but their color eluded him. Those eyes were warm, though, and the caresses his body still remembered hotter than coals, and Tony’s eyes spoke of such warmth, and his hands always burnt him, so why couldn’t it be Tony? In a parallel universe, it would be Tony who'd made love to him that night and filled his belly with fertile seed. It would be Tony’s baby growing within him, a teeny-tiny Tony whom they could both care for, when they weren’t caring for each other…

Peter let go of his spoon and rubbed at his eyes.

"I trust you," he said without looking up. "I trust you with life, Mr- Tony, but- it's-"

"You need a distraction."

The tone was so gentle, the understanding so obvious, so strong, that Peter almost admitted to everything right here and then. Damn, those hormones could tear down his barriers like nothing else; he had to remain strong, for the sake of their friendship. He couldn't very well ask for Tony to his future kid's godfather if the man was busy avoiding him because Peter couldn't keep his stupid crush to himself.

He steered his thoughts to a safer path. It took a great deal of effort on his part, but when he met Tony's gaze next, he felt confident that he could handle the rest of the evening, and truly appreciate the gift he'd been given.

"Tell me about the Mark 52." There was a light of something fierce flashing in Tony’s eyes. Peter couldn't put a name to it. "You told me that you've made modifications to the helmet, and that the flight was smoother, but when you began to tell me about it last week, we were interrupted, so... I'd very much like you to dazzle me again," he said without thinking.

That light flashed again, and Peter felt the weight of Tony's gaze in his belly, like a caress beneath his skin that he could taste on his tongue in an impossible kiss.

"Everything for you, kid."

Soon enough, Tony and Peter were speaking in their own language again, using so many technical terms and referring to advances patterns in physics that would have even an expert in the field confused. Peter thrived in their shared passion, and the ease they could share everything.

He could have gone for the whole night, talking of Tony’s creations, and shyly offering his inputs at Tony’s invitation, if not for the small fact that the baby was apparently not happy with him sitting there.

The cramp had Peter’s right hand leap mid-sentence to his belly in an automatic gesture. He would have to stop doing that, he told himself. Would also have to figure out what to say, when he began to show.

One problem at a time.

“The food didn’t agree with you?” Tony asked worriedly.

“Something like that.”

With the kind of calm authority that Peter had come to associate with his role in the Avengers, Tony coaxed him to his feet and led him to the bedroom on the second floor. Peter found it both endearing and annoying that Tony would make such a fuss over what he thought was an indigestion. He didn’t say anything and let Tony order him around. The shower did make him feel better, and he even got to choose his bed for the night. Since he couldn't very well ask Tony to share his, he opted for the one closest to the window. At least the night sky could distract him while his thoughts ran wild.

*

“Kid?”

Peter's restless twisting and turning came to an abrupt halt. In the background, the crash of thunder could be heard. Peter felt too warm, and so cold in the annoying paradox of his solitary bed. His watch red three fifty in the morning. He wished for Tony’s arms like he’d never wished for anything in his life. It wasn’t even about sex anymore, even if his desire for the man had not abated at all. He couldn’t sleep, he just couldn’t, and the baby playing dominos with his innards wasn’t even the main cause for his insomnia.

“Peter?” Tony sounded worried now.

Peter rolled to his other side. He couldn’t quite see Tony’s face in the dark, but the outline of his figure was like a beacon in the midst of a storm. A sob left his throat, a pitiful quiet noise that he hoped would be drowned by the elements outside.

He wasn’t so lucky. Or perhaps he was? Tony had just left his own bed on the other side of the nightstand and was presently sitting beside him, so close that Peter could touch his thigh if he uncurled his fingers. Another small noise escaped his throat, and the thunder rumbled further.

“Are you afraid of thunder?”

“No.”

“Lightning, then?”

Peter hid his face in the pillow.

“If it has something to do with Strange’s experiments-”

“Tony, please stop talking like Strange’s the enemy. He’s just a little weird.”

“A little weird?” Tony huffed in disbelief. “That’s not how I would put- Peter, are you _shaking_?”

And before Peter could think of a reply, or convince his body to stop acting as if he had a fever, Tony was lying down behind him and seeking his hand.

“Fuck, kid, your hands are colder than the ice cream you’ve had earlier. You sick?”

“Just…” Peter was too worn out to think straight anymore. “Just stay there for a while?”

He sensed Tony tense, and had already an apology ready on the tip of his tongue, when Tony spoke again.

“Perhaps I will get some sleep too this way. You’re a bit cold for a pillow, but I will manage.”

Struck by the knowledge that Tony, too, had been lying awake in his own bed all this time, Peter didn’t react when a warm, calloused hand slid up his forearm and elbow, brushing against his hip.

“Good night, kid. And don’t be afraid of a little lightning; little ol' me is right here protecting you.”

Peter felt so good with his back to Tony’s chest, and the man’s hand on his arm, that he didn’t even elbow him for that comment.

He fell asleep to Tony’s heartbeat.


	5. Lovemaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's everything Peter has ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess... don't hate me? <3

Peter lay on his back, his distended belly shiny with sweat. His taut nipples were so sensitive at this stage of pregnancy that he didn’t dare touch them, especially not after the sweet torture Tony had put him through, licking and sucking the small buds with a devotion better fit for religion.  

“Ah, Tony…”

He could not see his own cock beyond his round belly, but he could certainly feel Tony’s mouth between his legs, licking complicated paths on one inner thigh, then the other, the small wet circles progressively closer to his throbbing erection. His goatee left he most delicious burning sensation as it rubbed against his flushed skin, and his tongue, his tongue… Peter really ought to be the one building an altar here. He had absolutely zero problem worshipping Tony until he came sobbing his name, and for half a second, he actually considered flipping his lover on his back to give him a taste of his own wonderful, teasing, loving medicine (which might be a tad complicated with his belly, but he was still willing to try).

God, but he loved Tony. He couldn’t remember a time his chest wasn’t full to bursting with that delicious feeling, couldn’t imagine a future where that love would run out. Tony was so easy to love, and his smile was gorgeous, and Peter wanted it to light his face forever.

“You look good enough to eat,” hissed Tony, lifting himself on his elbows to rest his chin on top of Peter’s pregnant belly. His eyes were dark pools of desire, and part of Peter wished he had a gift for drawing, so that he could paint the hunger splashed there, with his name burning in them. “Spread your legs further, baby. Can you do that for me?”

Peter bit down his lip, and Tony’s eyes flew to it like a moth to a flame. That request from Tony ever meant one thing, one layer of pleasure they both enjoyed, but that still embarrassed Peter to this day.

“O-Ok,” he stammered, parting his legs further, way more than was necessary, just because it would get Tony to groan in wonder at his flexibility. “Just for you.”

Tony did groan, and bent lower to lick Peter’s erection from root to tip. He lapped at the leaking slit for a moment, and Peter knew he just wanted to heighten the anticipation, but still his body fell prey to Tony’s mouth and the trap so sweetly designed for him.

“There you go, love.” Tony placed a kiss on each of Peter’s balls, before slowly parting his ass cheeks to expose his hole. “Just like that. Perfect.”

He licked a long stipe on each side of his hole. Peter whined in spite of himself, and he felt Tony grin. Before he could brace himself for what was to come, a wet tongue circled his hole, the pressure exactly what he needed, craved from his lover. Screwing his eyes shut to better enjoy it, he took a hold of the silken sheets ( _shouldn’t they be cotton?_ wondered a small voice in the back of his mind) and let out a strangled moan as Tony dipped his tongue inside of him, humming approvingly. The first thrust was gentle, slow and unhurried, but the next one was deeper, almost urgent, and Peter soon found himself shaking as Tony fucked him in long, powerful strokes of his clever tongue.

He wouldn’t last if Tony kept at it, so Peter sought the room for a distraction. Their bedroom was strangely… fuzzy, the colors somehow unstable, shifting, and the sensation was not unlike that one time when Ned and Michelle had convinced him to try drugs. Still, he was able to make out some of the details in the bedroom: the size of their bed, big and soft and covered in pillows of all kinds and shapes; a huge mirror on the ceiling; a smaller mirror beside the door leading to their walk-in closet; the plethora of spider-shaped candles alit on every surface available ( _didn’t he find spiders weird? what were those candles doing here?)_.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” he chanted. The room might be interesting to look at because it was theirs, a few aspects might be weird, but none of those things could hold his attention for long with Tony going to town. The sensation of a tongue pumping in him was like no other. As for an _enthusiastic_ tongue… Peter didn’t even understand the words of praise that left his lips, it was just so good, and he was going to come from Tony’s clever tongue, from the burnt of his goatee catching at the rim, from his strong hands massaging his buttocks, and the hungry noises he made as he sheathed himself inside him, wet and agile and _perfect_ …

Just when he thought he would combust along with the sweat-soaked sheets under him, Peter felt Tony’s tongue leave him. He might have let out a small noise of protest, because Tony’s rich, warm laugh reached his ears.

“I’m so fucking hard from eating you,” Tony growled in the decadent voice only Peter got to hear. “I want to fill you up, baby. 'm gonna fuck you so good, you won't ever want to leave our bed ever again.”

“Then fucking do it!”

Still laughing, albeit a little breathless now, Tony put his legs on his shoulders and rubbed the hot head of his cock against his wet entrance. Peter lifted his hips, causing his lover’s hands to spasms on his thighs. All of a sudden, Tony’s mouth was on his, demanding and giving and everything’s Peter wanted.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” he gasped, one hand moving to Peter’s belly as he inched his way inside his fluttering ass. “So fucking beautiful. And all mine." He licked his lips." I love watching you grow heavy with my child, and I love you, both of you, so fucking much, Peter Stark.”

Tears of joy streamed down Peter’s cheek ( _but they were not yet, and the room was spinning now, everything in shades of grey and it was_ wrong _, but Peter held on to the truth of this love, of the feeling threatening to choke him)_

“I love you more,” he replied, voice thick and watery.

“So you think,” crooned Tony.

Just as he bottomed out, the baby gave out a powerful kick. Peter half-winced, half-smiled, and licked his lips at the sight of the father caressing his belly with adoration ( _Tony’s body was flickering in and out of existence, so this, here, couldn’t be real,_ the little voice from before told him; Peter shut it up and pretended it had never spoken, even if he couldn’t see Tony anymore, and could hardly feel him at all).

“Are you ok, Peter?”

Peter linked their hands, but his went right through Tony’s. The spider candles were still very solid and tangible in the room, more so than his lover had ever been since they'd started kissing, and Peter screamed in anguish, tearing the almost transparent sheets. The baby gave another strong, violent kick, and to Peter’s utmost horror, his belly _burst_ , splashing the torn sheets with blood and darker things. He couldn’t feel the baby anymore, couldn’t even feel his own body, and surely he would die here, out of his mind and bloodless, with only memories to light his way to the other side…

“Peter, wake up!”

*

“Kid?”

Peter’s eyes snapped open.

The high canopy bed, the spider candles, the walk-in closet; it was all gone. Tony remained, but he was fully dressed, and if concern could be found in his expression, it was a far cry from the smitten-looking man who’d kissed him...

Weeks of wearing masks allowed Peter not to burst into tears just here and then. He bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood, though, and quickly averted his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see Tony, who didn’t desire or love him, watching over his pathetic form with friendly concern.

“Kid, you don’t look so well.”

Peter snorted. His heart beat too fast, and his chest felt too tight, but at least he could pretend he was fine.

“I’m ok. Just a… nightmare,” he whispered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony shifting from one foot to the other. He looked awkward. Tony Stark didn’t do awkward much.

“Still feel sick?”

Peter frowned.

“No, why?”

“Your hand-”

Peter let go of his belly just a little too fast for the gesture to be natural, but Tony didn’t comment on it. Peter inhaled deeply; he wasn’t _that_ pregnant yet. Tony couldn’t possibly suspect what was really going on in his body.

He rubbed his eyes and shuffled to a sitting position. ‘Weariness’ and ‘morning’ didn’t go well together, but his hormones seemed intent to turn his body against itself.

“Anything you want me to do?” asked Tony, still looking unsure. Peter had never managed to pull off 'sexy' when he felt like that, but Tony made it look completely effortless.

“Breakfast sounds good.” Peter forced a smile and dropped his hands into his lap. “If we have the time, that is. You probably have work to go back to…”

Apparently, Peter had become good at the whole pretending business, because Tony brightened and left the room in a rush after telling him to take the time he needed to ‘get ready’.

Peter stared hard at the pile of clothes on the chair by his single bed. For all of two minutes, he allowed himself the luxury of crying silently while caressing his belly. He wished he had a nightmare like Tony had thought. In a way, this blissful dream had been one, because it wasn’t real.

Tony’s love for him wasn’t real either. As Peter wiped his cheeks angrily in the shower, he wondered if the time they’d spend together yesterday, and their proximity last night, was responsible for the dream. Probably. And not caring if he got hurt in the process, his subconscious had connected Tony’s platonic presence in his bed with his adventure with the father of his child.

_Good boy, fuck, you’re so tight._

Peter dug his nails into his arms and snarled at the drain. He’d never wanted to have powers, and while helping people had always been important to him, he would give up his special abilities in a heartbeat if it meant gaining Tony’s interest. He would do a great deal to get there, even get rid of-

He found himself reluctant to finish that thought, and started to cry all over again. Damn hormones. The first semester couldn't end soon enough.

He stepped out of the shower on shaky legs and hid his flushed face in the plush towel Tony, or the bistro’s owner, had left there. He _never_ wanted a dream like that again, no matter how blissful he thought it made him feel for a while. He didn’t need a reminder that he would never get what he wanted, would never share intimacy with the man he desperately loved.

When he left the bedroom, he had his walls up again, and a small if genuine smile on his lips. Spending time with Tony, being his friend, was still infinitely better than being a stranger to him.


	6. Strange Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Strange doesn't like to be denied, and Peter's doing his best to deny him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it hasn't been exactly two months? *winces* Enjoy!

Life returned to normal, or as normal as it could be for a sixteen-year-old young man who a) had superpowers b) was pregnant c) carried a torch for New York’s most eligible bachelor. He met with his friends, let Barton ruffle his feathers, and participated in Avengers-related activities that didn't revolve around getting hit in the chest. And if he was the tiniest bit aggressive about his personal space and felt relief whenever Captain America chided Widow for offering him alcohol behind the others' back, his secret was still safe.

Nobody should blame him for being distracted, but some people could, and did.

“Am I boring you, Parker?”

Peter jumped in his seat. “N-No! Why would you think that?”

Dr. Strange was glaring down at him, an old leather-bound book open in his palms. Peter had been shooting webs for the last half hour, following the older man’s directives as to how much, how fast, and every other little detail that made Strange the meticulous scientist who should be, but wasn’t getting along with the other scientist in Peter’s life.

He sat straighter. Strange seemed to look right through him. He had to fight the urge to cover his belly with both hands and snarl like a cornered cat. Fuck, but those hormones were annoying.

“I enjoy our w-work,” he stammered. “Really, I do. I’m just-”

“Distracted? I think the whole world knows that by now, Parker. And _you_ should know that I’m not a patient man.”

Peter managed to roll his eyes, which didn’t quite help with the whole glaring-him-down thing that Strange had going on.

“Fine.” Eyes narrowed to black pinpricks, Strange closed the book with a _thud_ that almost caused Peter to jump again. “Go home.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter tried that pout that always seemed to work on Banner… and Mr. Stark- no, _Tony_. But he wouldn’t think about his crush right now. “I really like our lab time.”

Strange vanished the book with a flourish.

“You shouldn’t be sorry, Parker. What you _should_ do is let me examine you. I’m beginning to think that my informatic systems didn’t crash by accident.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked weakly.

Dr. Strange was suddenly, their difference in height made all the more obvious by their proximity. Sweat beaded at Peter’s nape. The proximity of the man’s tall body to his own (and the baby barely protected by the thin skin of his belly) twisted his belly into knots. He had to try and move away, to be safe, and keep his secret, but Strange was a strong man just as stubborn as his student. He wasn’t stronger than Peter, but the magic rings that he’d cast around Peter’s wrists effectively held him in place.

“What the fuck?” Peter tasted fear. He had nothing to fear from Strange, surely, but the forced immobility didn’t quite fit with his protective, maternal (paternal?) instincts. “Strange, stop that.”

“Soon. What is it you’re hiding from me, Parker?” Strange leaned further into him. Their noses touched. “What were the results of that scan?”

Peter bit down his lip so hard he tasted blood. His heart rate was going through the roof, and Strange, observant as ever, was taking in all the signs and interpreting them correctly.

“You’re afraid, but I see desperation in your eyes. You want to share what is burdening you,” he said in a croon that might have aroused Peter, in a parallel universe when he was into tall sorcerers and bondage instead of small, compact geniuses who didn’t like their veggies but said his name like a prayer. “Talk to me, Parker, or I swear I will search the answer myself.”

“You won’t use the Eye for this,” Peter blurted out.

Strange didn’t move, but the searching look in his eyes morphed into suspicion. “Of course not. But you _are_ afraid of my finding out about whatever you’re hiding. So afraid that this…” he gestured at the magical restraints, “… causes you to almost hyperventilate. _Breathe,_ Parker.”

“Let… me go.”

A long, bony finger caught a drop of sweat at his temple. Peter turned his head away, searching for an escape. He trusted Strange with his secret identity, but he was _not_ going to tell him about the baby. Dr. Strange was too much of a scientist, too curious a man not to take apart the puzzle that he was, with that unexpected child growing inside his belly. But Mr. Stark-

 _Tony_. Tony would care. Peter had known the man cared even before that evening at the bistro, and the night that had followed, when Tony had held him in his arms to help him sleep.

But he couldn’t tell him. Tony was not the father, and as far as Peter knew, he didn’t want children. He wouldn’t screw his one chance at maybe, probably, one day, making himself appealing in the eyes of his mentor. What could he say, anyway? _Hi, Mr. Stark, I’m pregnant. Yeah, I know I’m a guy. No, I don’t know who the other father is, but I sure wished it was you. By the way, I had this dream when we shared a bed, where you called me Peter Stark and were clearly aroused by my being pregnant with your child. Could I please blow you before you get back to the Mark 52?_

No: there was not a single universe where that conversation would end up with Tony taking Peter apart (in the sexual way, not the Strange’s scientific way) on his work table. He would offer to look for the father, certainly, would support Peter in any way he could.

Peter was very glad for Friday’s discretion, but of course, the AI would see no need to inform Tony of a situation that didn’t concern him. If Peter had borne _his_ child, however…

He felt like throwing up. Why couldn’t he think of the baby’s father instead? Why couldn’t he remember anything beside a heady laugh, the phantom presence of a thick cock up his ass, and a voice praising him, calling him a _good boy_.

Dr. Strange’s hand on his jaw called him back to the present.

“Wherever have you’ve gone, to, Parker?”

Peter swallowed hard. That hand burnt. It should be Tony’s.

Sadness clawed at his throat. “Look, Strange, you know I like you, right?”

“I believe you do.”

Peter tried to smile. It wasn’t his instinctual response to Dr. Strange _handcuffing him_ , but he knew that self-deception would help ease the tension. He wasn’t afraid of his lab partner. He wasn’t. Dr. Strange’s demands for answers and total disregard for anyone’s privacy was nothing new, and Peter would not let this heightened protective tendency overcome his desire for secrecy.

He was well on his way to believe he could convince Dr. Strange to back off when he spotted a spider-shaped problem out of the corner of his eye.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me_.

Actually, there were five of them. No, seven; nine, then eleven. Little scrawny spiders emerged from dark corners, their eight little eyes strained on Peter like they were his to command, his to use as a buffer between him and the world.

They were his unborn child’s protectors, Peter realized with a start.

“What is it, Parker?”

“Nothing.” Peter very pointedly didn’t look at the thirty (forty-five, fifty-two) spiders now grouped around one foot of the wooden table. _Shoo,_ he thought. _Don’t make it weirder than it already is._ After all, if Michelle could figure out his secret, Dr. Strange too could add things up and come up with the right conclusion.

The bonds loosened around his wrists. Peter had half a second to experience plain relief before Dr. Strange’s hand moved to his shoulder… and stayed there. Dark, searching eyes found his, held them with a threat wrapped into… affection?

“I am not the best of friends you could have, Parker, but I do protect and care for what is mine.”

“And I’m yours?” Peter said stupidly, because there were now close to a hundred little arachnids watching him from behind Dr. Strange, and they really didn’t seem that inclined to leave him alone even if he was doing his best to explain with both thoughts and pheromones that no, he didn’t need help, or support (even if he clearly needed both, just not from them).

The strong fingers on his shoulder dug into his shirt. To Peter’s utter dismay, the unexpected grounding quality of that simple act was enough to wring a soft moan from his throat. He could feel the flush creep up his neck, but how could he help it? He’d been thinking about that dream not a minute ago, and the mere thought of Tony usually sufficed to make his cock swell in interest.

He ducked his head, intent on drowning unseen in embarrassment, but a long, agile finger tipped his chin upwards. “I like to think so, yes. Which is why you have to let me help you Par- Peter.”

 _“I love watching you grow heavy with my child, and I love you, both of you, so fucking much,_ _Peter Stark.”_

Peter let out a pained noise and burrowed his face into Strange’s neck. He could tell his friend didn’t expect it, but those lean arms still wrapped around him, holding him upwards, holding him together.  

With his face hidden from view, Peter glared at the spiders, mentally pleading for them to please back the fuck off. As if in disappointment, they recoiled on themselves, before another glare sent them scurry back to their hole. Peter almost felt sad to see them go, but Dr. Strange was too bright for eight-legged clues to chill around his pregnant person.

“You will tell me what I wish to know,” Dr. Strange said with certainty, standing back and holding him at arm’s length.

_I want to fill you up, baby, ’m gonna fuck you so good._

With a protective hand over his belly, Peter threw himself away from the table, away from Strange, finally using that superior strength of his to get a much-needed breathing space.

The sorcerer’s eyes dropped to his belly a half-second before Peter became aware of his mistake.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“Nope!” Peter stepped back further, just for safety. “But I’m really hungry. Bye!”

“I was going to order your favorite Indian,” Strange replied smoothly. Those electrodes he’d put on Peter that day had appeared into his hand. “Give me two minutes-”

“I’m afraid I really have to go!”

He ran up the stairs so fast it felt like flying.

*

Michelle and Ned agreed to meet him at May’s apartment for a movie. Feeling calmer now that no one was trying to force him into a corner, Peter gathered the necessary ingredients for a salad that would please both his aunt _and_ his own changing preferences. Old rock blared through the speakers. On a whim, Peter washed some broccoli to add to the salad. When he realized he’d wanted them because of Mr. Star- Tony's reaction to them in the bistro, he reached for the subtle swell of his belly and rubbed it at length, head thrown back, lips trembling.  

He was not going to spend yet another evening mourning the enigma that was his pregnancy, and Tony’s lack of sexual and romantic interest, no matter how much that dream still haunted him.

He was going to have fun.

Easier said than done, though. ACDC was playing now, and Tony had just sent another text, something witty and funny that shouldn’t make him feel like his heart had just missed the memo and gone for a vacation.

He put back the broccoli into the fridge, switched the radio to classic, and resumed the meal preparation. When all was done and the plates on the table, Peter went to take a cold shower as to not be tempted to jerk off _again_ to the thought of Tony’s calloused hands on his ass. He felt slightly better as he stepped out of it, and found the strength to message back Tony. They exchanged texts about Peter’s grades (good but not stellar; Peter should have lied), Tony’s job (they quipped back and forth about the board of directors), and other non-sensitive subjects… until Tony decided to give him a heart attack.

 _So, you’re gonna tell me about that lucky girl (boy?) I’m not supposed to know about?_ – _TS_

Peter considered rolling into a ball and crying, and alternatively, taking up a new identity and hide in another country.

His fingers trembled as he composed his reply.

_Just a crush. Nothing worth mentioning. – Peter_

Tony’s reply came ten seconds later.

 _I’m sure you’ll find someone worthy of you, kid. And that someone will be very lucky to have you_.

Peter hid his phone under his pillow, made his bed, _his Aunt’s bed_ , and went back to the kitchen. Fortunately for his frayed nerves, his friends arrived soon afterwards.

“A salad?” Ned exclaimed.

Michelle patted his shoulder. “Brownies isn’t a food group.”

“But there’s so much… green.”

For the first ten minutes after his friends’ arrival, Peter was thrust back into familiar ground, joking about their teachers and classmates, exchanging tidbits of trivialities that kept him from focusing too much on his unrequited crush. Ned even stopped complaining about the salad after Michelle had threatened to feed it to him, and not through his mouth.

But then Michelle had to choose a romantic movie, and Ned, the traitor, agreed because he’d lost some bet earlier in the day. Sandwiched between his two friends on the old sofa in the living room, forced to watch how a stupid blonde and an equally stupid quarterback admitted their love to each other, Peter returned to his earlier misery. He only stopped caressing his belly, which he hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing, when Michelle shot him a knowing look. Blushing hard for the second time that day, Peter thought back to the Avengers’ last fight and sighed in melancholy. He definitely missed helping people, and kicking villains’ asses in the process.

“Earth to Peter. We’re out of the PG-13 range now, if you’re interested.”

“As if there’s anything remotely interesting about this movie,” Ned muttered, giving Peter a handful of popcorn.”

“You will watch that movie like your life depends on it.” Michelle intercepted that handful and threw it back at Ned’s head.

“Hey, what have I ever done to you?!”

Peter jumped out of the couch. “How about we play cards instead? There’s this Russian game you mentioned the other day, Ned-”

Michelle rolled her yes. “Oh, I know that game. You two are going to lose.”

Peter smiled. He really could use a good fight, but he sure appreciated spending time with his friends. The love they shared was uncomplicated. It didn’t fill the hole in his chest, but it helped make it more bearable.

He didn’t win a single game that night, but he went to bed thinking happy thoughts. With a contented sight, he curled into a ball, and for the first time since he’d learnt of the pregnancy, considered baby names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Peter <3 (and Tony *sighs* he really doesn't get it, does he?)


	7. Priorities and Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking care of the baby, taking care of Tony; some hard decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just helped a couple of friends move this morning and I'm physically *dead*, but I'd promised myself I would finish that chapter today, so here it comes!

Peter’s wish to kick some villain’s ass came true at two thirty-one the next morning. By then, both Ned and Michelle were long gone, and May was probably deep asleep in her room, snoring softly after a long day of work.

As he pushed back the covers and scrambled to his feet, Peter regretted binging on popcorn. He could feel nausea rolling in his stomach, but he was not going to throw up. He was needed. His team needed him, and so did the city of New York.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, chiding himself for being ridiculous but caressing his belly nonetheless, talking to the tiny bundle of life growing inside. “We’re gonna be fine. Don’t make me throw up just yet, please. Hide… somewhere. You’re still very tiny, so there’s plenty of place to play hide-and-seek, trust me. I swear I won’t let something happen to you, but I really need to go out there and lend a hand to my team, ok? I will make it up to you later. No more popcorn? That’s a deal.”

He grabbed his suit from under the bed and slid into it with practiced ease. Two months. He’d decided, after reading at length on the subject (even if literature on male pregnancy didn’t actually exist) that at two months, he would stop going out to fight. The only remaining element of that plan was the reason he would give the team.

“Still a few weeks to go,” he whispered to himself, pulling down the mask. “Holy shit!”

A dozen or so tiny spiders were looking up at him from his pillow.

“I’m sorry, guys, but you can’t come along.” He spoke to the baby, and to spiders, both of which couldn’t understand him, or reply; he was truly going crazy. “You’re too tiny, and there’s no suit to protect you. But tell the others I say hi!”

His phone rang for the second time in as many minutes. Peter picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“Parker!" a nagging voice shouted. "Get your ass downtown, I just texted you the coordinates."

Peter adjusted the suit around his middle. "Barton?"

"The very same," replied the archer. "ETA?"

"Give me... six minutes," Peter replied after consulting the coordinates.

A mere second after he hung up, his phone rang again. Peter took the call as he opened the window.

"Kid?"

Tony sounded every bit as frantic as Barton, but there was an undertone of authority, of worry to it. In the background, Peter heard some kind of commotion. Tony swore and blasted at something with his gauntlets; Peter would recognize that sound anywhere.

"I'm on my way," he told Tony. “Just give me-”

"No, wait, that’s not why I called."

Peter has his hand outstretched, ready to cast spidersilk to the chimney on top of the building facing their apartment block.

"What's wrong?"

"Barton’s being his insecure self again. You can get back to sleep, kid, there’s really no need for your-"

In the distance, Peter could make out an impressive explosion; in the phone, he heard the deflagration, and the telltale sound of something metallic being damaged.

“Tony!” he screamed.

“I’m- I’m fine, it’s just a bit of fire. Fuck, that’s hot- Don’t listen to anything I’m saying, kid, I’m just making toasts- Ah, you fucker!”

Peter leapt out of the window, both hands secure around a thin strand of spidersilk.

*

Barton had been right to call, and Tony was being overprotective again. The fact that he didn’t like lightning had nothing to do about his aptitudes in combat, Peter repeated to himself. He proved his value to himself (and to Tony, he hoped) again by blasting a number of Dobby-like creatures into oblivion. Those aliens, or science experiments turned wrong, had mean claws and teeth, and tended to spit an acidic substance that hissed on contact with his suit.

He thought he was doing well, everything considered, but that was before the baby started to protest the cascades it was being put through.

Peter landed hard on top of an office building and breathed through his nose, willing the nausea away.

“Kid, are you ok?” was Tony’s first question upon spotting him.

“Haven’t you seen how I’ve cleaned the sky?” Peter retorted a bit more harshly than he’d meant to, but hell, he was trying to keep his dinner from last night where it belonged. “I’m fine _,_ just catching up my breath.”

No sooner had Peter said the words that an armada of Dobbies appeared out of the corner of his eye, all claws and angry faces. One of them held what appeared to be a small explosive device not unlike a grenade. Still fighting nausea, Peter managed to catch that new element of danger in the nick of time, and threw it as high as he could.

“Explosive coming up!” he called through the coms, before promptly getting sick.

At least he’d had the foresight to lift up his mask. Hoping that nobody on the team had seen him, he pulled the mask back into place and stood up, arms at the ready. 

“Stark’s food not up to its usual standards, Parker?”

Peter almost jumped out of his skin.

“You can’t just magic yourself behind someone, Strange!” he cried out, heart pounding like crazy.

The sorcerer brushed invisible dust off his sleeves. His bondage cape (the nickname was Tony’s, of course) was elegant as ever floating off the man’s shoulders.

“I can, and I just did.” Strange spun on his heels, both hands moving in a complex pattern. A heartbeat later, two Dobbies were sucked into the portal he’d created to… was that the North Pole? Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Strange yanked him behind his back (with magic, probably, because both his hands were busy) and sent a third enemy spiraling down the large boulevard below. Someone screamed on the coms, but it sounded like a victory shout, so Peter ignored it.

“You’re awfully distracted today, Parker.”

“I am not,” Peter bit off, even as his stomach made another attempt to jump up his throat. Crouching down, he flung a spidersilk grenade at one of the small clawy creatures and watched it explode with satisfaction. “Does that seem like ‘distracted’ to you?”

Strange casually put another creature on fire without even looking at it.

“You’re hiding something from me,” he said, lips lifting in a smirk at the shocked look on Peter’s face. “And I want to know what it is.”

“We’re sort of in the middle of a fight, here…”

He turned in time to watch Iron Man land on the roof a few feet away from them. The faceplate went up, showing a scowling Tony.

“Are you done distracting my protégé?” he snapped.

Peter felt Strange’s fingers dig in his shoulder. When exactly had the sorcerer gotten so close? Peter fought the reflex to put a hand on his belly. The little one was fine.

“That’s amusing you should mention it, as I _was_ just telling him that he should not go on the battlefield if he can’t focus.”

“You haven’t even said that!” Peter protested, and pried himself free of Strange’s grip. Seeing how Tony’s face darkened and anticipating the angry words that were about to add fuel to the fire, he lifted a hand. “Don’t even start! And for everyone’s info, let it be said that I wouldn’t be distracted if you didn’t think it necessary to argue every time you meet each other! We’re all on the same team, you know!”

“What?” Tony looked outraged. Scowling, he threw an arm back and blasted another Dobby into nothingness. One of Barton’s explosive arrows caught another one a little farther back. On the neighboring rooftop, Widow cut the head of yet another one with what looked like an axe.

Tony shot Peter a pointed look. “I hate to agree with magic Peter here, but you sure seem like you should be in bed. I’m getting data from your suit, and it ain’t good.”

“You shouldn’t have called up on him in the first place,” Dr. Strange retorted.

Tony opened his mouth to reply, but Peter was faster.

“Will you two please stop!” He stepped away from the two men and threw his hands in the air. “We’ve got an army of house elves to fight and-”

“I know that.”

Tony and Strange had spoken at the same time. They glared at each other. For a moment, Peter considered forcing them to shake hands.

"If you get a single scratch, kid, I swear I will have both you and Clint on cleaning duty for the next three fights,” Tony muttered under his breath.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you be careful too. And don’t fight with Strange; we’ve got _real_ enemies to fend off today!”

Not staying to see if the two men were being reasonable for once, he jumped into the air and kicked a cackling Dobby in its chest. He was not going to throw up, he was not going to throw up…

He threw spidersilk at the closest building, where Widow had traded the axe for… was it _Barton’s bow_?, tested the resistance, and flung himself into emptiness.

“Having fun, Parker?” Barton asked through the coms.

Peter stepped sideways to avoid an attacker and retaliated with lightning-fast balls of explosive spidersilk. “Absolutely,” he lied through his teeth. Why wouldn’t that nausea go away? “How about you, lost your bow?”

“Just traded it for something better.”

“Something better? But I thought you lived for that bow!”

Peter didn’t hear what Barton said, because just then his knees gave. He didn’t feel the need to throw up in the immediate future, but that feeling of helplessness didn’t bode well.

“Couldn’t you have waited… a couple more minutes?” he breathlessly chided his belly.

“Now is not the best time to talk to yourself, Parker.”

Strange held by the neck one of their enemies. He didn’t look pleased. At all.  

“Just… not feeling so well- Must be something last night-”

“Interesting, how you seem just as sick as that time you came seeking out my help, and left after destroying the data.”

“I didn’t…” Peter leaned back against the brick wall, wishing for strength. “Just… shoo.”

Strange created a portal and shoved a creature in it with a flick of his wrist. The creature’s destination was a volcano, this time. Strange was probably gathering data even as he sent all those little bastards to different nobody-friendly destinations.

Peter took a deep breath and stood up. The faintness would pass soon. He had to get back to the fight, make sure Tony wasn’t being too reckless-

Lifting his eyes to the sky, he saw Iron Man fly head first in a swarm of the creatures. A heartbeat later, both Tony and his enemies, engaged in close combat, vanished from sight.

“Parker-”

Dr. Strange’s hand missed him by an inch. Whether the sorcerer meant to teleport them both to Tony’s location or return him to his room in May’s apartment out of some misplaced sense of duty, Peter would never know.

What he did know was that Tony didn’t reply to his queries on the coms, and that even Barton seemed worried by that silence.

Gathering his strength, Peter shot a strand at a nearby wall and leaped into the air, zigzagging between buildings, basically deaf to Strange’s shouts, and the enemy’s war-like cries. He ran and he jumped and really, he should be lying down, considering how weak he was feeling, but every cell in his body pushed him onwards.

When he made out Tony at last, he thought he was already too late. The little creatures had pinned the Iron Man Suit to the ground and one of them must have torn the helmet and what was next to it off, because it had one ugly hand around Tony’s throat. And Tony’s face was turning a worrying shade of blue.

“Tony!” Peter screamed, gluing two Dobbies to opposite walls. “TONY!”

Right when he intended to get rid of the rest of the creatures (there had to be at least a dozen), probably by asking Karen for the very best in his suit’s gear, a bomb detonated a few stories above him, blasting off a roof and various clotheslines. In a desperate attempt to protect Tony, the baby _and_ himself, Peter lurched forwards, extended one arm, shot enough spidersilk to drag his feeble body closer to Tony, and plastered himself on top of the older man, a thick layer of thick, resistant spidersilk like an ephemeral armor over his upper body.

Tony’s lips moved against his neck.

“Pe- Peter?” he croaked.

“Tony, it’s all right now.”

Relief flowed through Peter. Tony would be fine. The baby, cushioned by their two bodies, would be fine. They would all be fine.

“Barton,” he said through the coms. “I’ve found Tony, he is-”

He didn’t get to finish that thought; something incredibly heavy hit both of his legs. Hard.

Pain exploded behind his eyelids.

“Peter?” Tony groaned, shifting uneasily under him. “KID!”

*

Peter was still conscious when he was carried into the Tower, but barely. The pain in his legs had reached such a point that tears streamed freely down his cheeks. Still, he could see Tony very clearly, and Tony, for all the bloodied marks on his throat and face, looked the very definition of unhappy.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” he screamed just as someone swift and clad in black (Widow, Peter thought) lowered him to what looked like an infirmary bed.

Banner, who was apparently back from his secret vacations (he’s sure gotten a nice tan, Peter’s brain helpfully supplied), jammed a needle in the crook of his elbow. His voice seemed to come from far, far away. “For the pain,” he explained in a soothing voice. Then, harshly, to Tony: “You will keep your voice down, or I’ll kick you out of this room this instant.”

Tony sank into the only chair by the bed and took hold of Peter’s left hand, squeezing it as if to make sure the younger man was really here, and not an hallucination brought about by post-battle adrenaline.

“I said not a scratch, kid, and you broke both your legs?” He sounded pained, and even worse, disappointed.

Peter’s chest seemed to constrict into a tiny ball. Why couldn’t he feel his legs? Was the baby fine? Would he feel it if something was wrong with the baby? It was still so tiny, barely the size of a grain of rice, if even that. Peter tried to shake his head to shake all those panic-inducing thoughts loose, but his neck ached. Every limb in his body ached. He couldn’t breathe right, but he had to breathe, had to keep the baby alive, and Tony, oh Tony… He had to wipe that disappointment off his face. Gathering the loose strings of fear in a manageable bundle, he inhaled deeply. He didn’t dare look down, though, but his right hand flew to his belly, shielding it from… from what exactly?

“You’re going to be fine, Mr. Parker,” Dr. Banner said softly, patting some part of him that miraculously didn’t hurt. Must be the only one. “Between your accelerated healing and the best treatments there are, you will walk again in no time. Just take it easy. We’ve got you.”

If Peter wasn’t pumped full of drugs right now, he would be more concerned about all those statements about his legs. As it was, he _merely_ started to sob louder.

At his side, Tony swore in a language Peter didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry I screamed at you, kid.” His face was a firework of emotions, blinking in and out of existence: sadness, regret, guilt, affection, pain... He hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand, and his grip was firm, almost painful; Peter barely felt that pain, and even if he did, it was a good pain. It meant that Tony cared for him. And of course Tony cared for him; they were friends. Close friends. “Please stop crying,” Tony begged, drawing his attention back to his face. He was really handsome, even with all those marks on his cheeks and brow, hair plastered to his temples. “I don’t know how to handle crying people, I really don’t.”

“A dose of oxytocin is heavily recommended in such cases,” Friday chimed in before Peter could embarrass himself further, say, by getting snot all over his face.

Tony looked nonplussed at Peter, who just cried harder.  

“In simpler words, you’d better hug Mr. Parker,” the AI explained with her best imitation of Fury’s voice.

Slowly, almost delicately, as to not disturb those parts of Peter’s body that really should stay still to mend, Tony leaned into the younger man and wrapped his arms around him. He smelled like blood and metal, like sweat and violence, and part of Peter just wanted to rub his face into the man’s neck, but of course, he would only look even more ridiculous.

Still, he closed his eyes, if only to better savor that Cologne that was Tony Stark’s natural scent.

“That’s it, good boy,” Tony whispered in a rough voice, one hand splayed across his nape.

Peter shivered hard. _Good boy._ That was what the stranger to whom he’d lost his virginity had called him, too. Peter bit his lip to stifle the next sob. Tony was here, with him. He cared, and he liked him. That was all the mattered.

“I’m really sorry I screamed,” Tony went on, the hand at Peter’s neck moving slightly, massaging, almost caressing. Goosebumps exploded all over Peter’s skin. “I was just scared for you when all hell broke loose. I’m real grateful you saved my ass, but you’re so- You’re so tiny, so young, and half the time I think I’m stupid to have allowed you on the team. Not because you can’t fight,” he quickly added before Peter could protest, not knowing that Peter couldn’t, because he was too busy melting into the embrace, “but because I don’t…” The sound of Tony swallowing was loud in the quietness of the room. “Because I don’t, I really don’t want for you to die on me, Peter. I- We all care about you, very much. You’re such a good kid.”

It took Peter a while to find his voice. He could feel someone pushing something into his legs, but he tried not to look, to focus on Tony’s presence instead. On his smell, his voice, his… “I care about you too, Tony.” The right words were hard to find. “I guess I’ll have to take care of myself for a while, even if I wish I could always be there for you.”

Tony brushed a wild strand of hair away. “You already are, kid. And you’re right to take some time off. You take all the time you need, ok? You’re still welcome to the Tower anytime you want, fight or no fight. And we will plan other weekends together, right?”

Peter’s heart felt so full he thought it might burst out of his chest. Breathe in. Breathe out.  

“Shouldn’t you- Shouldn’t you get the wounds on your neck checked?” he blurted out.

“Precisely what I’ve told him,” Dr. Banner said from somewhere in the area of Peter’s legs. “Those are gonna get infected, Tony, and you know it.”

Tony just shrugged. “It’s just scratches.”

“Made by unknown entities. Leave it alone for two minutes, will you, Brucey?”

Dr. Banner sighed. Peter slowly relaxed against Tony’s chest.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” he asked in a small voice.

The words were barely out of his mouth that Tony was standing up to come sit on the bed, his thigh against his, with only some threads of cotton between them. Concern and affection danced in his brown eyes, and Peter could feel the warmth of it all seep into his tired body, lull him to sleep. The hand at his nape felt so good. So _right_.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Peter replied automatically.

Tony’s face went very serious.

“Don’t ever try and sacrifice yourself for ol’ little me again, is that clear?”

“Only if you promise to take care of not so ol’ little you.”

Dr. Banner snorted. Widow, who’d left and come back with a tall glass of water, cast Tony a doubtful look.

And Tony, Peter realized, was positioned in such a way that Peter couldn’t see much of what was happening with his legs. It was probably on purpose, knowing him.

It was care. And if Peter allowed himself to believe it was love, he was drifting to sleep anyway.


	8. Closer to the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter starts to remember, the baby says hi, and Tony and Strange get into a fight at the worst of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days, how about that? Thank my dentist.
> 
> I'm pretty proud of this chapter, so I hope you like it as well. Cheers!
> 
> For the Spanish speakers among you, amdc1597 is translating this fic into Spanish, Las Horas Faltantes. Muchas gracias, amdc1597!

Living at the Tower had both its perks and its downsides.

On the plus side, he was always close to Tony. The genius rarely eat breakfast, but he made an effort for Peter, who had to spend most of his day in bed, or sitting; in other words, recovering from ‘being entirely too selfless and risking his life’.

He saw the Avengers more often, too. Barton made sure to harass him about his crush (but never within Widow’s earshot, and thankfully never long enough to make it awkward), but he also stayed to play chess, sometimes. Widow… It was she who’d made sure Tony was leaving his lab to take care of his semi-permanent guest, not that Tony seemed to need a lot of incentive, given by the smile that always graced his face whenever he laid eyes on Peter.

Dr. Banner’s time with him was mostly of the medical variety. The man would check on his legs, adjust his medication, and ask him plenty of questions. Everyone was amazed by the speed at which he was healing wounds that should have crippled him for life, but both Banner and Tony insisted that Peter played it safe and lounge about the Tower for a while, if only to be on the safe side.

As if Peter would ever refuse. He couldn’t go back to his normal life with a baby slowly stretching inside his belly. Besides, Friday had taken to the role of teacher in no time at all and was way more fun that any tangible teacher at school. If the school had protested his ‘solitary confinement’, Peter never heard of it.

As much as being close to Tony was an upside, it was also a downside for other reasons. Peter loved the man to bits, but since Tony didn’t love him _like that_ , living in such close quarters with the older man was hell on his blood pressure. Peter had accepted the fact that his crush was one-sided, but to be this close, all the time, to the man he loved, made it hard to focus on his studies, or on anything else. At least he was healing fast.

Another downside of living in the Tower was that he didn’t get to see his other friends as often as he would have liked. Both Michelle and Ned visited him at least once a week, but it wasn’t the same. Given that Michelle (and possibly Friday) were the only ones aware of his not-so-little secret, it was always a little bit awkward to be alone with her in his rooms. The spiders that she'd labelled ‘the baby’s security detail’ never hesitated to come out when she was here, as if they sensed that she knew, and that she cared too. And she did care. _She_ didn’t bring brownies during the week he couldn’t stomach them, unlike a certain someone with a passion for chocolate.

Days bled into each other, turned into weeks. During the day, Peter ate, followed Dr. Banner’s instructions to the letter regarding his posture and allotted physical exercise, talked to May and went through all the material Friday hacked straight out of the school’s computer system. He did his homework and school projects almost religiously, ate with Mr. Stark and the other Avengers, forbid himself to mop and smiled to everyone.

Nights were another story entirely. In the sanctity of his rooms, he would rub his slowly thickening belly, trying to imagine the life growing inside. Trying to imagine the face of the man who’d helped put it there. Sometimes, the urge to ask Friday about _that_ night was so fierce Peter had to distract himself with complicated maths and physics to forget, if only temporarily, about the mystery. Wouldn’t the AI have told him if it was someone he knew, or should know? He was 100% sure that Friday cared for him. Perhaps the other… father… had disabled the security cameras, perhaps…

Peter turned around in his bed, both hands clasped on his belly. He felt sick, but he knew it was all in his head.

“Good night, Friday. You tell Tony to eat something in a couple hours, ok?”

“Of course, Peter. I’ve already scheduled to shut down the main computer of the lab in 3.8 hours.”

Peter felt asleep with a sad smile, under the watchful eyes of dozens of tiny spiders.

*

_“That stuff doesn’t taste so good anyway,” Dr. Banner told him gently but firmly, directing him to the juice carafes on another counter. “I like pineapple myself. What will you have?”_

_Peter huffed in exasperation but didn’t protest. Tonight might be_ his _party, but he liked to think of Banner as a friend, and knew better than to start a fight over something as silly as alcohol. “Do you think they have cherry?”_

_“Would pomegranate do? Oh, how about strawberries?”_

_Peter was nursing a pomegranate-strawberry tall glass of juice, in which Widow had not so subtly agreed to pour some of her imported Vodka in a move too fast to see for anyone else to see, when Barton flopped on the sofa next to him._

_“You know you’re his favorite, right?” the archer asked casually, stretching like a cat._

_Peter shot him a confused look over the rim of his half-empty glass. “Who?”_

_“Tony’s. You’re his favorite. Has been ever since he’s given you that suit he’d made with his own hands.”_

_Peter was so glad for the dimmed lights, but the smirk on the archer’s lips let him know that his blush might very well be visible._

_“We’re good friends. At least I think we are.”_

_Barton nodded, but there was a look in his eyes, a look Peter couldn’t quite place. The tightening in his guts prompted him to empty the rest of his glass. He liked the taste. It was sweet, like that kiss he would never get. No, he told himself. He shouldn’t think about Tony like that, not when the man was in the same room, waving at him from behind one of the buffet tables._

_Peter waved back, the lower half of his face hidden behind his glass. Which was empty. He sighed._

_Barton picked up an empty glass from a table nearby and flung it into the air. He caught it with his eyes closed and spun it rapidly between two fingers._

_“Why do I smell vodka?”_

_“Well-”_

_…_

_“There must have been some strong stuff in that glass,” Peter giggled._

_He rarely giggled as a rule. He was probably very drunk, but he felt good; relaxed, confident in a way he rarely was surrounded by all those people he struggled to emulate. Looking around him, he noticed that he’d left the main area of the party and was now standing in front of a very tall window overlooking the city of New York. It was all so shiny down there. Every building glistened like a jewel. He laid a hand on the glass, cupping a tower in the distance. A giggle escaped him. May would kill him if she could see him right now._

_“Someone’s in a great mood.”_

_Peter’s breath caught. Someone was standing beside him, someone that smelled really, really good. He leaned closer to them._

_“You shouldn’t drink so much under Brucey’s nose, or he’s going to think up some refined punishment for you, or for me,” a deep baritone caressed his ear. “Or for both of us.”_

_Peter felt warm all over. Tony was here with him. He was with Tony. Alone with Tony. His thoughts were all smudgy, but he couldn’t be made to care. He was so much in the older man’s space that he could kiss him if he just turned his head, but Tony’s arm was around his shoulders, holding him close, and for now, it felt right._

_“Don’t you agree with him?” he said, his tone dreamy, distracted. “About the alcohol?”_

_“You’re old enough to make your mind about all the glorious things of life. I trust you, kid.”_

Kid _. Peter felt even warmer now. Hard, too. He hoped Tony wouldn’t notice. Or, if Tony did notice, that he would do something about it. But not run away. That would be sad. He didn’t want to be sad, and didn’t want Tony to be sad either. Perhaps he could offer to blow him? He sure wanted to taste what he kept smelling, that warm skin so temptingly close, if he just leaned in he could kiss it and-_

_“So I’m old enough to drink,” he mused aloud. “Am I old enough to-”_

_…_

_The soft texture in his back was a mattress. If felt too comfortable for him to move, except that there was a mouth sucking on his gland, and fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. With a low moan, he thrust his hips upwards, deeper into that delicious heat, and fisted his hands into the sheets as that hot mouth swallowed him whole. He couldn’t_ think _. Did he need to think? He couldn’t quite see the man sucking him like his life depended on it, but the fire burning in his loins made it hard to do anything else than undulate his lips and submit to the pleasure. He was close, so close-_

_“God, y-you…” He tried to say a name. His tongue felt heavy, and so did his cock, hard and leaking, as it slid in and out that wet mouth. Should he know the man touching him like that, so intimately?_

_The man he couldn’t see hummed low in his throat, and the sound reverberated thorough his body. Peter whined. It sounded pained, and that made sense, because he felt pain- He was going to come any second now, but there was something he should ask, a... permission of sorts, but his thoughts kept escaping his grasp, and the hands on his hips, pressing in the skin like they meant to brand it, were so hot, so strong, and he loved it-_

_“I-“ He couldn’t quite breathe right. So good so good so good- “I’m gonna-”_

_The man’s throat tightened around him, and Peter climaxed with a cry, emptying himself into a mouth he wished he could kiss right now, but physics didn’t quite work this way. Damn physics. Perhaps he’d expressed his wish out loud, because a chuckle broke the silence, and the man lifted his head._

_“I want to kiss you too, but I’m still savoring you down here. You’re so sweet. Can I? Please tell me I can… Show me-”_

_Peter threw his head back as that mouth returned to his cock. At least, that’s what he thought it was doing, until he felt a tongue probing at his asshole, dipping inside, lapping at his walls. It felt like a dream come true. Peter caught a handful of coarse hair and blurted out something, but it wasn’t a name, it was-_

_…_

_He lay on his belly. The body pining him down was hot and sweaty, and it smelled so, so fucking good. He wished he could scream the man’s name, but the letters just wouldn’t arrange themselves into any word that made sense. Besides, he couldn’t focus on anything but the sensation of that hot, thick cock sliding in and out of his hole. Lube was coating his thighs, and the man penetrating him gathered some on his hand, before reaching around for Peter’s cock. He pulled at it gently, almost reverently. Peter didn’t feel much pain anymore, only an intense pleasure that kept building in his loins, as the man made love to him with such skill, such… devotion._

_He couldn’t help the whimpers that kept tumbling from his lips. It just felt so good. He wanted the man to know._

_“Fuck, you’re so lovely, sweetheart,” a deep voice rose from above him. A breathless voice, full of sex and possessiveness. “And those little noises you make- You feel so good, I don’t think I… will-_

…

_“Such a good boy for me. Come now, let me see you-”_

_…_

_“Yes! Oh god, I-”_

_…_

_“I’m not going anywhere, you should know that by now-”_

_…_

_“Do you truly love me-”_

_*_

Peter woke up with a start, his fists in the bedsheets, heady pictures from the dream still blinking temptingly in front of his eyes against the white paint of the wall. He propped himself on one elbow and dragged a hand down his face with a pained moan. He was glad for the memories, but they were not quite the one he was looking for, only some more pieces to try and fit together. He still didn’t know how the man looked, or his name, even though he could remember his voice… He frowned. Actually, now that he tried to describe it to himself, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t made it all up, because that voice sure sounded like- But no, that would never happen, why was he torturing himself so-

_Do you truly love me?_

He turned around and buried his face in the pillow. He should know better.

“Another nightmare?”

“Holy shit!”

Peter didn’t fall to the floor for three reasons: A) his legs were still healing, and tended to remain still until he made a conscious effort to move them B) the bed was ridiculously huge, a fact he tried not to linger in for too long, lest he lost himself into yet another fantasy involving its true owner C) the baby.

“What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“Three forty-five AM,” Friday chimed helpfully. “Should I call for Mr. Stark, Peter?”

Peter scrambled to a sitting position. At least, he was wearing his pajama pants, if nothing else. Dr. Strange, on the other hand, was in full sorcerer regalia. His cape floated between him and the bed, for all intents and purposes studying Peter, and trying to come to a decision about him. When it extended its folds towards him, Peter jerked back.

“No, it's fine, Friday,” he said nervously. “Is he sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“Then let him sleep, ok? He needs to rest.”

Friday grew silent. Strange didn’t move from the chair by the bed, a chair he must have conjured from his own office, because Peter didn’t recognize it. He looked… impassive. Of course, that would mean he felt anything but.

Peter sat straighter and told himself to relax. He didn’t want the baby’s security detail to show up, or the baby to get… upset.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

Strange arched an eyebrow. “Does one friend need a reason to visit another friend?”

Peter just looked at him. Being sleepy, he knew that he didn’t get that _look_ right, but Strange at least stopped pretending there was no purpose to his little night visit; he leaned forwards, his expression intense. A little too intense, perhaps.

“A friend doesn’t try to corner another friend into giving up their secrets,” Peter replied, his temper flaring up. “We see each other weekly for your experiments. We eat together weekly, too. I’m grateful for the time you take to check on my legs, too, but there’s really no need to _invade my privacy at... three forty-six in the morning_.”

“You’re still sick. You throw up at least three times a week.”

Peter felt himself grow pale.

“Everybody can be sick once in a while. It’s not a crime, nor does it warrant so much attention from Midgard’s sorcerer supreme.”

Strange huffed. “Won’t you believe that I’m concerned for you, Park- Peter? Something tells me that this secret of yours could very well get you killed.”

Peter wished he could argue, but he couldn’t. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that at some point, the baby would need to get out, and that his body wasn’t built for that purpose.

He shivered. Of course, Strange noticed. And being the type of person who disregarded personal space just like a certain genius, he teleported on Peter’s bed, ignored his gasp of shock, and draped an arm around his shoulders. He was very warm, and so was his breath in his ear. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” When Peter didn’t answer immediately, he made a low noise in the back of his throat, something akin to a growl, and cupped Peter’s chin, tilting his face up. “You don’t think I would harm you in any way, do you? I might be curious by nature, and I may treat… others differently than you do, but I do… care for you.”

Peter was so shocked (he didn’t think Strange felt _that way_ about him, but the proximity was still unnerving) that he didn’t even blink when the door burst open, revealing one mightily pissed off genius.

“What the hell are you doing in my Tower, Strange?”

“Checking on a friend,” Strange replied dismissively, still seeking _something_ in Peter’s eyes. “Would you like for me to check on your legs’ healing with my magic? I can’t promise-”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Tony rush towards them. The older man had one of his gauntlets on, and the tousled head of someone who’d jumped out of bed in a hurry. Peter couldn’t help the swarm of butterflies taking off in his belly. He smiled nervously.

“Get. Out. Of. His. Bed,” Tony growled between his teeth, directing his gauntlet at Strange. “That’s a one-time offer.”

Peter was torn between the desire to tell him to chill out, and the not-so-innocent urge to invite Tony to replace Strange in his bed, if he was so against the other man’s presence. He could almost _taste_ Tony’s anger. Bitter, but sweet, too.

Like that drink he’d had that fateful night.

_I want to kiss you too, but I’m still savoring you down here. You’re so sweet._

Peter felt his cheeks heat up, and of course the sudden blush drew not one pair of eyes, but two to his guilty cheeks.

“Kid, are you ok-”

“Tony, you can go back to bed-”

“I’m only trying to help, since you don’t seem to want to take the appropriate measures,” Strange said firmly, letting go of his chin at last. “You can’t take care of him the way I can, Stark.”

Peter felt a rush of anger. “Back off, Strange. And Tony, really- Take off the weaponry, ok? You both are ridiculous…”

“I told you to get away from him,” Tony growled.

“And I just _told_ you that he needed my care-”

“You’re not welcome here-”

“Then I may take him with me, to be properly cared for?”

“You want to get punched in the face, don’t you? I always knew you were a masochist, you sick-”

Peter rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to deal with another fight between A) the man he loved B) the friend who'd taken it on himself to torment him at night.

“Guys-”

But Tony raised his voice, face inches from Strange’s, and way into Peter’s personal space. Under normal circumstances, Peter wouldn’t mind, but Strange already occupied a good chunk of that space, and the baby was a secret, had to be protected. Neither man knew, and they could elbow him by accident, harming-

“Guys, back off-”

“-don’t you get it, Stark? He’s been keeping something very important from me, but also from you, and it could be life-threatening-”

The gauntlet came online. “Get. Out. Of. My. Tower.”

Strange took hold of Peter’s wrist. “I will take care of you.”

“Don’t-”

“Just don’t,” Tony echoed. “If in three seconds you have not-”

Peter felt a bead of sweat run down his temples. “Guys-”

“You won’t like it when I’m mad, Stark, so I tell you one last time-”

“This is my fucking tower and you _will_ -”

“STOP!”

Silence fell on the room. Peter tore himself free from the grip Strange had on his wrist and scurried to the head of the bed, where he tucked his knees to his chest and blinked hard not to cry. Now was not the time.

“Stop… fighting. Both of you.”

If the two men hadn’t threatened to make him lose his mind just now, he would have laughed at their matching expressions of worry.

Strange stood, very clearly backing off, and Tony let his arm fall to the side, gauntlet now powered off.

It should have been fine then. Except that Strange had to hint at Tony’s inability to take care of Peter one last time, and Tony lost it completely. Peter curled into himself and covered his ears with his hands as the two men screamed themselves hoarse. If the fight got physical at some point, Peter didn’t want to know. He only stopped shaking when the door was opened, a last scream rose in the air, and the door was slammed shut.

He opened his eyes, hoping for an empty room, but Strange still stood by the bed, his arms crossed, lips thinned to an angry line.

“Mr. Stark wishes me to tell you that he is sorry he lost his temper,” Friday said suddenly, disapproval clear in her voice. “And he orders Dr. Strange to leave the premises this instant, or else.”

Peter wiped at his cheeks. He was so tired of the crying, of all that worrying. He just wanted to-

A peculiar sensation, deep within his belly, gave him pause. What was that? He didn’t hear what Strange said, too intrigued by what had just happened. Was it the baby? Was there something wrong?

Then it happened again. A small… kick? Peter’s eyes grew wide even as his heart sped up.

The baby was kicking.

The _baby_ was kicking.

His eyes welled up with tears.

“Please leave,” he croaked, staring hard at his knees.

“Peter, what is-”

“Now. Leave now.”

The air shifted ever so slightly, but Peter knew that Strange had left without looking up. It was a good thing, that he didn’t need to move, because he didn’t think he could move any part of his body right now. Except his hand. And that trembling hand was tracing large circles over his belly, seeking out the baby. The baby who’d just talked to him, in the only way it could. The fact that babies usually didn’t start kicking until the fourth or fifth month of pregnancy was irrelevant.

This baby was special, unique.

And Peter couldn’t share that moment with the man who had helped create it, because he _didn’t know who he was_.

He started to cry harder. If the world suddenly came to an end, he didn't think the anguish could get any worse. Could he really blame the hormones, or had he always been that pathetic? God, he was tired.

The baby kicked again.

Peter screwed his eyes shut, but still the tears fell on, and on, and on…

“Do you want me to call anyone?” Friday’s voice was very soft.

Peter cleared his throat. “N-No. I’m going to- I’m going to be fine.”

“You’re pregnant, Peter.”

Peter froze, panic seizing him violently.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Friday quickly reassured him, probably picking on his reaction. “And I doubt other people could tell. What I meant to say is, do you want me to gather data you might not have access to? On a private server that only you could log on? I just want to help you.”

“Tony-” Peter croaked. “You would _have_ to tell, show it to him, if he asked.”

“Why would he ever ask?” the AI replied reasonably. “I care about you, Peter, inasmuch as I can. I only want what’s best for you and my creator.”

In the end, Peter agreed. He didn’t sleep anymore that night, though, and watched the sun rise over the horizon leaning against the window, one hand cradling his belly, not quite sure if he wished for the baby to kick again, or not.

He felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just so obvious for everyone but you, Peter. But don't you worry about Tony; he's just *very* jealous of your friendship with Strange.  
> And just as blind as you.


End file.
